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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24952033">Knock, Knock</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosyredlipstick/pseuds/Rosyredlipstick'>Rosyredlipstick</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Clubhouse 2.0 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(Sorry georgie), A lot of cursing, Everyone is Alive Except Georgie Denbrough, F/M, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, It's about the healing from trauma really, M/M, Past Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, if you think about it 'your mom' jokes can really be so erotic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:09:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,693</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24952033</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosyredlipstick/pseuds/Rosyredlipstick</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Knock, knock.</i> <br/>“Who's there?”<br/><i>A recent divorcee out of a terrible, toxic marriage who needs a place to crash while their life and career fall to pieces.</i><br/>“A recent divorcee out of -”<br/>"Richie," there was a kick at the door. "Open the fucking door, it’s boiling out here!"<br/>Richie swung the door open to stare at the light of his life surrounded by bags of luggage.<br/>"Oh, Ms. Beverly Marsh, what a surprise." He southern-bells a Voice out, leaning against the doorway with a hand draped over his forehead. "Would it be so terribly improper to invite you in for a moment or two?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh &amp; Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Clubhouse 2.0 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806157</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>185</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>shout-out to rina for beta reading this even though she's never read or seen a single piece of IT media! so thanks for making this readable babe!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Knock, knock. </em> </p><p>“Who's there?”</p><p>
  <em> A recent divorcee out of a terrible, toxic marriage who needs a place to crash while their life and career fall to pieces. </em>
</p><p>“A recent divorcee out of -”</p><p>"Richie," there was a kick at the door. "Open the fucking door, it’s boiling out here!"</p><p>Richie swung the door open to stare at the light of his life surrounded by bags of luggage.</p><p>"Oh, Ms. Beverly Marsh, what a surprise." He southern-bells a Voice out, leaning against the doorway with a hand draped over his forehead. "Would it be so terribly improper to invite you in for a moment or two?"</p><p>Beverly, on his doorstep and absolutely sweating up a storm, smiled ever-so-sweetly. “Eat glass, Richie.” </p><p>“Well, <em>I never -” </em></p><p>She lovingly pushed him back in order to stand in the glorious air-conditioned doorway. “This is the hottest fucking city I’ve ever stepped foot in,” she said through clenched teeth. Her entire face was bright red—turtle-god, did she already have a sunburn?—and her skin was shiny with sweat, her short hair frizzy and curled from the moisture. </p><p>“That’s August in L.A. for you, baby.”</p><p>She gave him a dark look, clearly not amused. “Don’t call me baby.” </p><p>They’d been back from Derry for two weeks, and Richie had been spiraling into the great unknown abyss since then. After they emerged from the cistern, muddy and bleeding and limping only on adrenaline and had taken turns dipping their toes into the quarry, they had returned back to the inn for “proper goddamn showers, Richie, the hole in my face isn’t going to fucking disinfect itself in dirty ass lake water.” Then, they went home one-by-one, Bev first. Richie had half-assumed that she’d disappear into the sunset with Ben after everything, especially with the heart eyes Ben seemed to permanently invest in, but by their second morning at the inn post-IT, she’d grabbed her bags and run with only a note left on the bar saying she <em>had to figure out some shit</em>. Stan had fled next with repeated, sincere promises to text moment-by-moment to ensure no clown-related-memory-loss and left the rest of them to pack up Mike's apartment and make arrangements for everything else. Since then, Bev had been semi-active in the groupchat Mike had set up, but not much else. </p><p>That was, until two days ago, when Beverly had texted him at 4 a.m. a simple <em> wud? </em> Richie had gone with a <em> nothin ever, </em> only to receive a screenshot of a flight confirmation to LAX and a <em> send ur address ill grab a lyft.  </em></p><p>And now, apparently, she was moving in. Considering the absolute disaster both of their lives currently were, he tried not to be too excited despite the slight confusion of it all. Bev did more than well enough for herself and could bankroll a new place in any city she wanted, even with most of her finances tied up in the divorce. Yet here she was, chugging a water bottle in his front hallway, sweating through her tank top. </p><p>Richie cleared his throat. “What’s a place like you doing in a girl like this?”</p><p>She paused. “Movie quote?” </p><p>“Of course.” </p><p>She rolled her eyes, amused, before turning back to drag her suitcases in. “Tom’s not coming here. He’ll know through the divorce paperwork that I’m in L.A., but it’s not like he knows we’re friends.” She sighed and dropped her shoulders. “And in a horrible, sexist way, I don’t think he’ll come after me if I’m staying with another man.” </p><p>“Oh.” Richie didn’t really know what to say to that. Or, if he let himself keep talking, he knew something offensive was bound to fall out of his mouth. Bev changed the topic, thankfully, as she swung the door shut after herself, all her luggage now piled in the front. She wandered down the hall, her eyebrows lifting with each step. </p><p>“This place is huge.” She looked around, her eyebrows raised. “How big is it?”</p><p>“Uh,” If she was asking for the square foot amount or whatever the fuck, Richie had no idea. He led them into the living room. “There’s five bedrooms? And a few bathrooms. And a pool?” He shrugged, strangely embarrassed. “I kind of splurged on it after the check for my first big special hit. But this -” He threw back the curtains, the wall to floor glass windows exposing rolling hills of lush greenery. “This is what sold me on the place.”  </p><p>Bev smiled widely, almost beaming with the flush on her face. “Wow, okay. I get it now. What a view.”</p><p>With the curtains thrown open, the living room looked miles better with all the natural lighting drifting in. Huh. He couldn’t remember the last time he did that. </p><p>He hadn’t really had guests over since he moved in either, when Steve insisted on some networking party to “break in the place.” Richie had spent the entire night quietly miserable and downing equal amounts of stiff gin and powdered lines on mirrors—he hardly remembered anything past the caterers appearing. </p><p>This also meant he had no idea what to do with guests once they showed up. A vague image popped into his head: his mother circa the late 80s, fretting around after their houseguests to offer iced drinks and curled up cold cuts on a toothpick. She threw house parties every other Saturday night. The Uris’s would always drag along an unopened bottle of wine and Stan himself. </p><p>Another image: the Denbroughs, who never made another appearance after the summer of 1989, Mrs. Denbrough in their doorway holding some glass dish of whatever-the-hell, Georgie peering behind her leg. </p><p>He shook his head. Focus on one thing at a time—food. He could do that. </p><p>“Are you... hungry?” Richie tried, making his way to the kitchen. </p><p>The fridge was, predictably, mostly empty, but thankfully there was still half a carton of eggs, a single stick of butter, and an opened bag of shredded cheese. He pulled them all out as Bev watched curiously from the barstool. </p><p>“You can cook?” She finally asked, eyeing him as he dropped some cubed butter into the pan. </p><p>“I worked as a short-order cook for a few months in my 20’s before I got fired for stealing eggs,” Richie made a show of flipping the omelet. “Tomorrow, I’ll go get some potatoes so I can make you some of the meanest, greasiest hashbrowns you’ve ever had.” </p><p>Beverly smiled just slightly. “Why were you stealing eggs?” </p><p>“To fight against the capitalist agenda, Beverly.” She gave him a dull look. “Okay, also I was very, very broke and I didn’t think they’d notice. To be fair, it took them 4 weeks to catch on. I just told them I was really clumsy and kept dropping them.” </p><p>“And they believed that?”</p><p>“For three months, they did.” He shrugged. “Breakfast is the only thing I can do though. I’m no Chef Ben.” Ben, who’d spent the last few weeks sending the groupchat photos of his latest creation. Richie was just glad the guy was keeping himself occupied—heartbroken fool was the title he’d had since 13 and he wasn’t too willing to part with it just yet. </p><p>Also, with the topic, he was just slightly curious enough about breaching the subject of one Ben Hanscom.</p><p>Beverly immediately dropped her head into her hands at the name, which was telling enough before she spoke up. “Can we please not talk about Ben?” She said through her fingers. “Please?” </p><p>“What? Haystack, who?” Richie mimed zipping his lips closed, even though she wasn’t looking. “Never heard of such a beautiful man. His name shall not be spoken.” </p><p>She snorted but opened her eyes to peer at him, her fingers still splayed over her face. “Thanks.” She pulled her hand away to give him a careful look. “Do<em> you </em>want to talk about anyone?” </p><p>Richie’s shoulders tightened. He faced away to poke at the eggs with the spatula. “Nada, Ms. Marsh. Unless you want to sit around and gossip about the boys?” </p><p>She waited a beat before speaking, ignoring him. “Do you want to talk about Eddie?” </p><p>He froze, staring down at the pan. He swallowed, “Why would I want to do that? Not that old spaghetti isn’t great, but-”</p><p>“Richie, I - I know you. And I saw how you reacted in the cistern.” She looked away, her expression completely dumb-slack like all their faces went when they talked about that place, that thing. “When Eddie almost got hurt…” </p><p>He dropped the spatula right when he was going in to peel the eggs up from sticking, now suddenly lost, suddenly vacant, suddenly -</p><p><em> - Wet. </em> </p><p>
  <em> There’s darkness, darkness, and it’s wet - sewage, it’s sewage, it’s on his face and in his mouth and he wants to make a joke of something, anything, but it’s all just - </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>                                                                                    D </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>                                                                                                               A </em>
</p><p>
  <em> R </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>                   K </em>
</p><p> </p><p><b> <em>Dark,</em> </b> <em> with sewage pooling around them, and doors (Scary? Very Scary? Dog, closet, Betty Ripsom, 27 years too late), screaming, Beverly (gone, water, drowning, disappeared, gone, dead), Eddie, flashlight, guiding light (Braver than you think, you’ve always been braver than you think, Eddie you’re so much more than you think, Eddie, Eddie, </em> <b> <em>Eddie </em> </b> <em> -), Bill (dirty, dead Georgie, he’s always been dead, he’s dead Billy, Georgie is dead, stop trying to get us killed too) and water, more water, always water -), Mike (it didn’t work, Mikey, it didn’t work, too messed up for it to work) then lights brighter than suns, blinding, screaming, bleeding (Stanely, crying, hands on Richie, pushing him, Eddie, away and up), Ben waiting with a hand out, covered in Bev’s blood  -  </em></p><p>One of the eggs in the pan popped suddenly, white yolk flailing in the heat, a tiny splash of oil pushing Richie back to the present. He jerked his hand away, sucking the pain off his knuckle. and took a deep, steadying breath. Behind him, Beverly had gone completely quiet. </p><p>“Yeah, so, Eddie and I aren’t really talking right now.” Richie picked the spatula back up and took the pan off heat. They were done enough. “He’s, you know, home. With his wife.”</p><p>“Richie-” </p><p>“Nope.” He popped the word as he slid the eggs onto a plate. “If you get a free “no talking” pass with what’s-his-name, I get the same with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.” </p><p>Beverly watched him, her lips pulled into a tight line, but allowed him to place the plate in front of her without any fuss. Richie slid over a sparkling water—she was a New Yorker, the stuff was probably in her veins—and leaned against the bar opposite to her. </p><p>“Trashmouth Tozier, not talking?” She picked up her fork, some humor finally leaking back onto her face. “Stan will never believe it.” </p><p>He barked out a laugh. “Oh, Stan the Man wouldn’t survive without my decadent tones warming his ears. I’m his favorite, he told me.” </p><p>Actually, Stan had been a beer and a half in at the Jade of the Orient when he leaned over, flushed, his weight suddenly on Richie’s side, when he loudly announced that <em> I told Patty that Richie’s annoying and he’s the only one who came to my bar mitzvah. </em>Which, in Stan speak, basically meant Richie was his favorite. Eddie had seemed rightly jealous of it.  </p><p>She took a bite of her eggs and ate silently, quickly. She’d been like that as long as he’d known her.</p><p>With the heat leaked from her face, the red flush faded, her skin was unnaturally sickly pale, her red hair crumbled up. She’d clearly lost some weight when she was already in no position to spare some pounds, leaving her cheekbones especially haunting on her thin face. </p><p>He was in no position to judge someone’s appearance, especially considering he couldn’t remember the last time he showered regularly, but she looked… bad. </p><p>She looked like a ghost. </p><p>
  <em> - a flash of damp air, wetness, Bev suspended in the air, her eyes milky white - </em>
</p><p>“So you’re growing out your hair?” Richie smiled slightly. “I haven’t seen it this long since we were kids. I kind of miss the boy cut.”</p><p>Her fork dropped on the glass plate, clattering. She froze in that familiar way they were all getting used to, like she was suddenly dip-dropped into some faded, blurry memory from years ago. </p><p>“My dad liked it when my hair was long.” Richie absolutely fucking froze. Bev’s voice was numb, detached. “I forgot about that. That’s why I cut it all off that day. I was so upset. He got so mad.” </p><p>Beverly never came close to hinting at what her father did to her, but they’d picked up enough as a group and from IT’s taunting. Richie’s chest was tight, his face suddenly cold.   </p><p>“Once in college I accidentally let it grow out and when I realized…” Her hand came up to rub at the ends. “I had a breakdown and cut it to my ears again. I thought I was just stressed. I hate when it’s long.” It was barely past her shoulders, but she stared down at it blankly. “I can almost feel him brushing it behind my ear.” </p><p>A chill went down his spine. He blinked a handful of times, his throat tight. Like this, her gaze blank, she looked even more gone. </p><p>“Then cut it, Bev.” He fumbled with one of the drawers so he could hold out a pair of kitchen scissors. “Bev, just cut it.”</p><p>Her face wrinkled up, “I shouldn’t have to cut it because of him. I should be able to, fuck, to have long hair. If I wanted.” </p><p>“Do you <em> want </em>long hair?” </p><p>She didn’t even pause. “Fuck, no.” </p><p>“Then,” he flexed the scissors, making them snap, “let’s do this. In the bathroom, preferably.” </p><p>She left her plate abandoned on the bar, following Richie to the nearest bathroom. She shook her head at the offered scissors and turned to face the mirror, her eyes on Richie’s reflection. </p><p>He stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, thinking. “So like… short?”</p><p>She was smiling slightly now, even with the corners of her face still weighed down with memories. “Yeah, Rich. Short.” </p><p>“You know, you can always go to some stylist. Uh, a salon? Those are things?”</p><p>“You’re nervous now?” The smile was becoming a bit more real with every moment. </p><p>“Fuck no,” and with that, he brought the scissors forward and cut off a single longer curl, right down to her earlobes. He held it up in horror, “Oh god, was that too long?”</p><p>She giggled, her hand over her mouth. “That’s good, Richie. Just make the length consistent, okay?”  </p><p>“Yes, yeah, totally.” Consistent, that wasn’t too much to ask for, right? </p><p>Right. </p><p>He cut a few more in experiment, slowly, before growing slightly more confident. Soon, her short hair was cut up into a curled bob, nearly identical to her 13-year-old style. </p><p>She took the scissors back for a few brief moments at the end to trim her own bangs—thank the turtle-lord, Richie wouldn’t be able to handle the pressure—and set them down on the counter when she was done. She stared at her reflection, her gaze no longer vacant. She seemed more… searching. </p><p>She finally jerked her chin away from the mirror to look at Richie. “Your turn?”</p><p>“My hair is perfect the way it is.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes but didn’t dispute it. She ran a hand through her hair, shaking it up. </p><p>“You look punk rock as hell.” Richie grinned widely. </p><p>“I’ve hardly been here an hour and we’re already getting into childhood trauma,” She rubbed at her face. “I thought we’d at least have a filler day.”</p><p>“Filler day, smiller day.” He lifted up his phone, already grinning at the camera. “Say ‘clown trauma!’” </p><p>She didn’t, but at least smiled and held up a peace sign for the camera. Richie snapped the photo and sent it off to the Losers groupchat without a thought. They were both covered in hair, Bev the most, and Richie hadn’t managed to change clothes in a few days, even with Bev’s arrival. Still, they looked as good as any 40-year-olds post-haircut in a brightly lit bathroom could. </p><p>Immediately, his phone began to ding with text notifications and calls. He paused. </p><p>“Did you...tell the others you were coming here?” </p><p>Bev was examining her reflection, a bit happier with what she saw now. “Nope.” </p><p>“Cool,” He nodded, staring at the screen as more and more messages filtered through. A call from Bill, then Stan. </p><p>He powered his phone off and pocketed it. “So, wanna get drunk?”</p><p>She dropped her hand back to her side, a look of intense relief flickering across her face. “Oh god, yes.” </p><hr/><p>For as large of a game Beverly Marsh spoke, it only took 3 drinks and half a joint for her to completely knock out. </p><p>She remained curled in a ball on the couch. She had fallen asleep during their <em> The Mummy </em>viewing and he hadn’t had the heart to wake her up. He threw a blanket over her, set a water bottle next to her, and flicked off the lights. </p><p>Back in his room, he finally powered his phone back on. There was a predictable mess of notifications, which he all ignored and instead clicked on a single contact. He sent a quick text and, before he could do anything else, a flurry of responses came in. </p><p>EDS</p><p>hi</p><p>Now you answer?? It’s been five hours, dipshit! </p><p>Stan thinks she sold you for parts. </p><p>You need to answer your fucking phone more. </p><p>Five hours. Jesus. That must be a record for you. </p><p>So, Bev’s visiting? </p><p>Lol i think she moved in.</p><p>??</p><p>Yea. Think she just wants to hang out 4 a bit. It’s cool</p><p> </p><p>It takes more time for you to click over to the secondary keyboard and press ‘4’ then it would to just fucking type out ‘for’ </p><p>Thx 4 tellin me, gr8 2 no</p><p>Idiot. </p><p>Are you busy?</p><p>nvr</p><p>Call me. </p><p>Richie only waited a single moment before falling to temptation and clicking the little phone icon next to Eddie’s stupid fucking contact photo (Eddie, in the airport—Mike had snapped it when they went to grab coffees for everyone and Eddie struggled to balance his drink, Ben’s smoothie, and Richie’s order in his arms. He had asked for some sugary whipped frappuccino that he only ordered to watch Eddie go squinty-eyed and hand-karate-chopping over. He was making the stupidest face in it and Richie tried not to look at it every day of his life).</p><p>The call connected. </p><p>“Edward Kaspbrak speaking.”</p><p>“Dude,” Richie’s eyes closed, “you do <em> not </em>answer the phone like that.”</p><p>Eddie, predictably, went from 50 to 100 (Eddie Kaspbrak could not go 0 to 100 because Eddie Kaspbrak was never truly at a peaceful 0 to begin with) and went rapid-fire angry with, “And what’s it fucking to you? Yeah, that’s how I answer the phone, Richie. I’m a goddamn professional, I should answer the phone in a professional goddamn matter!” </p><p>“You knew it was me! You saw my contact! You just told me to call you!” Even if he had really wanted to, Richie couldn’t keep the laughter bubbling from his stupid, loud mouth. </p><p>“At least when we’re speaking, I’m not getting pissed off by your poor fucking texting etiquette,” Eddie grumbled. “You text like a high schooler. It’s annoying.” </p><p>“L-O-L, Eds, I’m R-O-T-F-L.” </p><p>“I don’t even know what that fucking means.” He exhaled a large breath. Richie knew exactly what was coming. “So, uh, how is she?” </p><p>“Knew that’s why you wanted to talk.” Richie leaned back in his bed, his free arm crossed under his head. “You only want me for my Beverly.” </p><p>“Maybe if you answered a single one of our texts, this could be a social call. You did this to us.”</p><p>Richie huffed out a laugh and wasn’t in the least offended. They’d all been different degrees of worried since she ran off into the night—Stan and Ben being the least and most, respectively. </p><p>“She’s asleep. She was probably tired after her flight.” Richie paused, “Wait, isn’t it late over there? You’re, uh…” </p><p>“Three hours ahead.” He answered promptly. “It’s not that late.”</p><p>He rolled his eyes. “You’re always going on about how ancient we are, Eds. Forgive me for thinking <em> 2 in the morning </em>is too late for your fragile old bones.”  </p><p>Eddie made a grumbling sound over the line, sounding like every ounce of the grumpy old man that he was. “I couldn’t sleep. Myra - I mean.” Eddie cut himself off suddenly. “Uh, my wife. She’s asleep already. I was gonna take a sleeping pill but, um, I’ve been having trouble with pills since Derry. Since we remembered everything.”</p><p>13-year-old Eddie screamed in his head, <em> they’re fucking gazebos!  </em></p><p>“Makes sense,” He said lightly. “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep either. Your mom came over and kept me busy all night.”</p><p>Eddie sighed, heavy. </p><p>“‘Cause we <em> banged,” </em> Richie yelled into the speaker, gleeful.</p><p>“You realize my mother’s dead, right? I distinctly remember telling you that.” </p><p>Richie lowered his voice an octave. “Yeah, I’m really sorry about that, Eds.” There was a suspicious silence. “You know, we always meant to tell you but - fuck, I can’t do it anymore. The truth is, Eds, Sonia and I ran away together years ago and it was just easier to tell everyone -” Richie broke off into a stream of laughter as Eddie’s whisper-yelled “<em> fuck you, fuck you, fuck you” </em>over and over into the speaker.  </p><hr/><p>He rubbed at his sore, greasy eyes and splashed his face with some water. God, he was exhausted. Bev wasn’t even awake yet, the sun had only been up for a few hours. He would know, he had watched the sunlight grow across his wall as it rose.  </p><p>He wasn’t sleeping much, obviously. </p><p>He and Eddie had hung up after an hour or so on the phone. Despite his claims otherwise, Eddie <em> was </em> clearly feeling the night and yawning every over sentence with only a request for Richie to “keep talking.” And even if talking <em> wasn’t </em>Richie’s only talent in life, well—as the man (Eddie) requests. So, he was running on even less sleep than usual. </p><p>Thank turtle-god for instant coffee. </p><p>Bev appeared in the kitchen a bit after Richie started banging around in there, making a pot of coffee. She had showered right after her haircut and hadn’t bothered to unpack much, instead stealing from Richie’s laundry for what her carry-on didn’t carry. She had tossed one of Richie’s button-ups over her thin tank top, the loose ends tucked into a pair of Richie’s shorts double-knotted at her waist. Snow white tube socks went up to her knees, the bottoms still slightly grass-stained from their late-night venture to smoke by the pool, and left her thighs exposed to the cool house AC. If Richie was even a little straight, he thinks this would probably be something he was into. But as it is, he was just slightly worried about the last time he washed that shirt in question. Last week, hopefully? </p><p>Mm. Maybe Eddie would be into wearing his shirts. In a totally bro-way. </p><p>Beverly melted into one of the bar stools, hungover misery hanging off her face in dark circles, sickly pale skin. </p><p>“We’ve got orange juice and champagne,” he gestured to the fridge. “Hair of the dog and all that?” </p><p>Bev made an audible gag. “Don’t even. Fucking think about it.” </p><p>He handed over a cup of pity coffee that she accepted eagerly. She inhaled the steam deeply, her eyes closed. </p><p>“Well, if we’re not drinking more, we’re eating.” He held up the spatula again. “Food?” </p><p>Finally, after some more eggs and a pledge to at least have some groceries or takeout delivered, they were both alive enough to start moving Bev’s pile of luggage around. </p><p>“This place is so empty.” She peeked around the corner as they gathered up a bag each. “When did you move in?”</p><p>“Uh,” He scratched the back of his head. “A few years ago?”</p><p>“That’s…” She looked at the blank white walls, the large empty spaces. “That’s kinda sad, Rich.” </p><p>He shifted his weight. “I could just never get myself to care about that kind of stuff, I guess. But if you want to decorate, go right ahead.” He made a weird wiggling motion with his shoulders. “I obviously don’t care.” </p><p>She reached out and ran her hand along the wall. “I might.” She pulled her hand back and turned to face him. “So, which room can I crash in?” </p><p>He gestured down the hall, “Whichever one you want! That’s the beauty of having an empty house, I guess. Uh, the one at the end is mine. And I sometimes use one of the upstairs rooms—it’s messy, you’ll know which one—if I have to work at home. But the rest are up for grabs.” </p><p>She nodded and allowed him to lead them from room to room. She eventually picked one of the smaller ones he’d been using for minimal storage. There was a large window and a sill deep enough for a normal-sized person to curl on (Richie wouldn’t even dare), along with a walk-in closet and attached bathroom. He set down one of her bags and got to work on clearing it out completely. </p><p>One of the only things he did to prepare for her arrival (out of quiet disbelief, probably) was order a new mattress and frame to be delivered as soon as possible. It had come yesterday morning and sat propped against the garage wall covered in thick, shiny plastic. </p><p>After an amount of physical activity his doctor would no doubt be joyful about, Richie panted and leaned against the wall after they dropped the mattress next to the still-boxed-up frame. Beverly, unfairly, only looked slightly winded. She stood tall, her hands on her hips. </p><p>She clicked her tongue. “Sheets?” </p><p>Richie groaned. “Fuck. No. I knew I forgot something. Fuck, I’m sorry.” </p><p>He should have prepared better for this. Fuck. There had to be some condescending fucking Buzzfeed article out there <em> What to do when you’re expecting: a forty-year-old lost friend who’s moving in after a horrible divorce </em> edition. </p><p>Honestly, up until the moment she showed up sweaty and pissed on his doorstep, he hadn’t believed she was really coming. Or, at the very least, staying. </p><p>She gave him a tired smile. “Rich, it’s fine. I need to run to the store to get regular toiletries and towels and stuff. Got any plans today?”</p><p>That, obviously, was a no. So off to the store they went. </p><p>Richie hadn’t been to the store—like an actual Target—in years. If he needed something immediately, he’d run to the corner store and for everything else, he had it delivered. He forgot how bright they were. </p><p>Bev immediately steered them toward the soap and health section, right by the popcorn and slush machine that he eyed severely, and began picking out her own numerous products she probably couldn’t fly with. He started up a game of Spider Solitaire on his phone, needing the distraction. </p><p>“Hey Rich,” her voice was too kind to be trusted. “What do you use in your hair?”</p><p>He raised an eyebrow. “‘Use’?” </p><p>“What products.” </p><p>“Uh, where do I begin? I start off with a nice 3-in-1 body wash, really soap up the curls, rise ‘em, then I run a towel over it and let it dry. And then sometimes, if I’m really jazzing it up, I’ll put some H2O in it to push the frizz back.” </p><p>Bev’s sickly-sweet expression didn’t waver. “That’s exactly what I thought.”</p><p>Richie paused, “I’m almost offended by that.” </p><p>She only hummed and continued her way down the aisle, occasionally picking up and putting down a product. </p><p>After a few minutes of this, she held out a bottle. “Smell this.” </p><p>He leaned in to do so. He pulled back. “Smells like… mint?” </p><p>“And do you like that?”</p><p>“Sure?” </p><p>“Great!” She knocked a handful of matching products into the cart. “That’s what you’re using from now on.” </p><p>He rolled his eyes, “Bev, I don’t need-” he picked up a bottle at random. “Conditioner. Whatever that is.” </p><p>“I hate you, and you’re using this.” She plucked the conditioner bottle out of his hand and set it back in the cart. “It’s my treat and it’ll be rude if you don’t accept it. Also, 3-in-1? Really?” </p><p>“It’s cost-effective.”</p><p>“You literally live in a mansion, Richie. Talk to me about cost-effective when your house isn’t bigger than a small town.” </p><p>“Glass houses, Marsh! We <em> both </em> live in a mansion now.” </p><p>She looked over at him, her mouth curled up in a begrudging grin. She reached over to lightly punch him on the arm. “Touché.”</p><p>By the end of it, they were dragging around two full carts and an armful of items each. Bev had seemingly thrown in every other thing they saw into the cart—small rugs, multi-colored towels, light summer clothes she hadn’t packed, numerous bottles of soap and hair products, candles, flip flops, snack foods, throw pillows, blankets, a lamp, sheets, light groceries, a blue vase she had liked the look of, a dinosaur plush Richie had instantly fallen in love with and promptly named Stan, a glass water bottle, a blender, cleaning supplies, along with numerous other products. By the time they got everything in the car, the entire trunk, backseat, and most of the passenger seat was completely piled on.</p><p>He took a large drink of his Slurpee, smacking his lips together afterward. Bev copied the action, smiling around the red straw clenched between her teeth. They’d both swirled the flavors together. Bev had even managed to make the colors swirl together in the cup, unlike Richie’s. Even 27 years later she was the coolest person he’s ever met. </p><p>He turned the key in the ignition. “Tacos?” </p><p>“I swear to god, it’s like you’re reading my mind.” </p><hr/><p>That night, after tacos and a long period of unloading the Target bags and finding a place for every single thing (Dinosaur Stan was proudly placed on the front hall table, “to keep guard” Beverly said as she set him there), they were finally relaxed and spread out in the living room. And, after a few hours, he had to finally ask the question that’d been on his mind since she first texted him. </p><p>"Bev?" He waited until she looked over. "Why are you here? With me, I mean?" He huffed out a breath. "Turtle-god knows you had better options."</p><p>She stared at him for a long moment before jerking her gaze back to the TV. Another episode of <em> It’s Always Sunny </em>started up. Finally, "Promise you won't get offended?"</p><p>Richie couldn't help but snort at that. "Oh, this'll be good." She went silent. He sighed. "Okay, promise, whatever."</p><p>She turned onto her side, facing him wholly now, tucked her hands over her head, her short bobbed hair a curled mess rivaling Richie's own unwashed mop. "Rich…" She says softly, "your life is kind of a mess right now." She pauses but when he doesn't bother to disagree, she continues. "And so is mine. And I think I need to sit in my mess for a bit. And being here helps me with that, because I know there’re no expectations. I don't even have to wear pants or leave the house if I don't want to. I can eat spray cheese and gain 10 pounds and smoke weed all day and no ones gonna -" she cut herself off. She tightened the blanket around her shoulders. "Nothing bad’s going to happen."</p><p>“Nothing bad’s going to happen.” He repeated, mostly for her. “We’re in this together, Marsh. I’ll eat spray cheese with you forever if it helps.” </p><p>She smiled. "Thanks for letting me crash, Rich." She jabbed him in the side with her foot, Beverly Marsh affection at its finest. "You're really doing me a solid. I mean, can you imagine me crashing in Stan and Patty's guest bedroom?"</p><p>"You're missing out on their Saturday morning stroll, from what I hear. Patty saw a blue butterfly last week."</p><p>She snorted, loud. "Or Bill's? God, that'd be so awkward. And Mike's on the road..." she trailed off, leaving them both firmly Thinking About Certain People. </p><p>Richie, because he's an adult, cleared his throat and tried to approach the topic. Slowly, like one would with a wild animal. Or like Chris Pratt in the <em> Jurassic Park </em> reboot. "Have you talked to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named recently?" </p><p>Bev shot him a confused look. "Yeah? This morning, remember?"</p><p>It took Richie's brain a second to catch up past his moment of surprise, then equal confusion. Then, he let his head fall against the couch cushion, groaning. "Ugh, not <em> my </em> He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, <em> your </em> He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named."</p><p>"Oh," Bev's voice went quiet. "We've been texting a bit."</p><p>"Yeah?" </p><p>"Yeah," Richie lifted his head to watch Bev pick at a stray thread on the blanket. She continued, "He always answers my texts within like, 30 seconds. Even when I text him late at night."</p><p>"Oh?" He wiggled his eyebrows. "Doing a lot of late-night texting, Ms. Marsh?" </p><p>She shoved him, at least grinning slightly now. "Shut up. I'm just worried he's not sleeping. He… you know, we all struggled before. And I'm concerned." </p><p>Richie raised an eyebrow. "How concerned we talking?"</p><p>"Just concerned he might return to certain bad habits," she shrugged, avoiding Richie's gaze. "I don't know. I feel selfish because I know it would be different for him if I was there, if he wasn't alone. But I'd be living with him and I can't - I can't live with an actual man right now-"</p><p>Richie couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at that, slightly stupidly offended. "I mean, sorry to break it to you, but -"</p><p>"Oh my god, no," Beverly looked horrified. "Not like that! It's different, with you. I mean…" she trailed off, uncertainly eyeing him.</p><p>Richie let go of a breath, his heartbeat cramping up at her words. <em> It was Beverly, </em> he reminded himself. It was just Beverly. She's always, in that mysterious girl way of hers, known. Or at least suspected, like Stan.</p><p>"I know," he finally said, "I know what you meant. Sorry for interrupting. Continue."</p><p>She let out a breath, her eyes wide. She kept explaining. "I know you don't see me like that. In a sexual way." She said clearly. "I know you never have, despite your jokes. I know you're not going to take advantage of me in any way, that I don't have to adjust myself when I'm around you, and that makes me feel really safe. I didn't mean to word it like that, of course you're a real man. I'm sorry."</p><p>Richie waved it off, shaking his head. "I know, I know. Just in the mood to get offended. I'm listening."</p><p>Bev gazed at him for another long moment before nodding slightly and continuing. “I just, right now, I can't really live with someone who wants something from me. Even if it's someone I love, because then I'll just keep giving them whatever of me, until," she sighed, "until I'm literally bleeding out on the bedroom floor and apologizing for making a mess on the hardwood. I can't do that again. And I know, I <em> know </em> Ben would <em> never </em>do that. But I just need some time to lick my wounds somewhere and think about what I want without Tom or a murder clown hanging around my neck." </p><p>Perfectly understandable, he thought. </p><p>“Well, since it helps, you should know that I have never, even for a single moment, found you attractive.” He patted her shoulder even as she swatted him away. “You’re welcome.” </p><p>She laughed a bit waterly, rubbing her hands into her face. Richie very politely did not comment on it—he was a good friend like that. </p><p>“There are too many emotions in this room right now,” she declared like she wasn’t the one providing at least 80% of them. She stared up at the ceiling. “Got any weed?” </p><p>Richie huffed out a breath and leaned forward to flick off the metal lid of the box on the coffee table. He had come Prepared for this discussion. “Only the best for you, Miss Beverly Antionette Marsh.”</p><p>He rolled the end of the joint around the flame for a moment, took a few quick puffs, then passed it over. It was mostly for her anyway. </p><p>"We're almost teenage rebels again," Richie grinned as she exhaled with a large sigh. "I feel like you’re five minutes away from rejecting my prom ask." </p><p>Bev smiled into the couch, passing the joint back. "I wouldn't say no. I'd feel too bad." </p><p>He took a puff to keep it burning, flicking the ash onto the nearest plate. "Good, that's exactly what I want out of my prom - pity."</p><p>"I didn't go to my prom," she mused, flicking through her hazy memories in the same foggy way Richie found himself doing. "I think I wanted to, mostly just to design my own dress. But my boyfriend at the time wasn't feeling it." Her hands clenched at the blanket, tightening it around her shoulders. </p><p>"It's not what the teen movies chalk it up to be," Richie tried, "I threw up on my date and the organizers made her change into a sweatshirt from the lost and found. Then, she kept digging her nails into me when we slow danced."</p><p>“You weren’t in Derry, at that point?”</p><p>“Nah,” Richie clicked his tongue. “Mags and Went insisted on moving out Midwest when I was… 16?” He thought it over. “It was just Eddie, Mike, and Stan then.” </p><p>He passed the joint back and gestured he was done. His tolerance was much too high to give him anything special from those few puffs, but the smoke was familiar enough to relax in. He adjusted so he could lean his head on her outstretched leg. </p><p>Her free hand started to rake through his tangled hair, slightly too rough. He didn’t pull away. “That must have been hard for you guys. I remember-” Her gaze went all fuzzy and unfocused. “I was broken up the entire time I packed up. Not like that house had much for me but, you know.” </p><p>“Yeah, Stan sobbed on my shoulder for like an hour. Even Mike was getting misty-eyed.” </p><p>Bev leaned her weight against his shoulder, the joint still smoking in her hand. She flicked the ash onto the metal lid. “And Eddie?”</p><p>Eddie, actually, had refused to speak for him for two entire days after Richie gave them the week heads-up, then biked to his house at midnight to knock on Richie’s window like some 80s rom-com wet-dream only to snot all over Richie’s dirty pajamas till the sun rose. </p><p>Richie tried for a thin smile. “No worse than the others.”</p><p>She didn’t call him out on it. She, thankfully, changed the subject with one last puff of the joint. “God, I’m starving. Wanna get pizza and watch bad horror movies?”</p><p>Richie grinned. “You sure?” </p><p>”Hell yeah. Let’s numb our emotional trauma by eating too much and yelling at the TV.” </p><p>“Oh, baby,” He rolled his head till he was facing her. Her eyes were already slightly red. “There you go, ruining my never-attraction to you.” </p><p>“Beep beep, Richie.” </p><hr/><p>He was having a very productive day. </p><p>He had agreed to sit in a coffee shop while Steve talked at him for an hour and shoved paperwork over, mostly because Bev had some errand to run, but left on the dot with two iced coffees to go and Steve fuming in a corner booth. Compared to some of his other post-Derry days, his day was like a goddamn marathon. </p><p>When he got back to the house, there was some light music playing from somewhere. He struggled to get off his sneakers in the doorway—Bev had a thing about dirty floors—but managed to stumble out of them without dropping any coffee cups across the tile. He followed the music into the living room. </p><p>A large unopened box took up residence beside the coffee table—a sewing machine?—with a half-assembled mannequin sat propped against the couch, just a torso and legs, while its pale, chalk-white limbs sprawled across the floor next to it. He stepped over the arms carefully, noting that he was probably next. Piles of rolled up multi-colored and patterned fabric were stacked in uneven towers, most of it dropped onto the couch cushions. Bev sat in the middle of it all, cross-legged and examining two pieces of fabric with the kind of ruthless intensity that would make a lesser man (or Bill) faint on sight. </p><p>“So,” Richie started, still double-fisting two iced coffees. “You rob JoAnn fabrics?” </p><p>She snorted without breaking her stare. She wrinkled her nose as she spoke. “I just realized I haven’t designed anything fun in years.” She tossed the other piece to the side, evidently deciding on one. “Tom insisted we let the assistant designers take over most of everything, and then I was really only doing soulless award ceremony gowns.” She briefly set down the fabric only to make grabby hands at the untouched coffee in his hand. He passed it over. </p><p>She took a long happy drink before setting it to the side and standing, collecting her fabric pieces as she went. “I’m gonna make you a few shirts.” She held up the piece of fabric to his neck and nodded, satisfied. “I know, nothing fancy.”</p><p>Richie shifted his weight. He’d felt uncomfortable with gifts since he was a kid, despite how loudly he’d demand them every birthday. “You… really don’t have to do that. Anyway, I like my ugly shirts.” </p><p>“I get it, your loud shirts are your thing.” She produced a line of measuring tape from somewhere mysterious. “But we’re 40, Richie. You have to start dressing a bit more mature. At one point, graphic t-shirts and Hawaiian shirts just make you look like a middle-aged divorcee trying to get their groove back.” </p><p>“Oh, so you?” </p><p>Bev froze, her hands mid-measure. Immediately, she buried her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Richie froze. </p><p>Fuck. Fuck, he was horrible at this. </p><p>Everyone always mentioned “crossing the line” when it came to comedy, like Richie’s fucking prescription wasn’t coke bottle lenses. He’d been basically blind since he was ten, how the fuck was he supposed to notice that kind of stuff? He felt like a cheap Helen Keller, feeling his hands along conversation and social queues with only bare-bones clues. Fuck, even that analogy was probably crossing some line. He was such <em> shit.  </em></p><p>Bev was still bent slightly over. Her shoulders shook with quick, tight tremors. Richie was still frozen in absolute fucking terror. </p><p>Ben was going to kill him. He was probably going to be super fucking kind while he did it, but he was definitely going to do it. </p><p>Bev finally looked up with a gasp, her face broken out into a wide grin. “Beep beep, asshole.” She wiped at her face. “What the fuck. I’ve seen your specials, you’re not funny.”</p><p>“Ghost-writer, babe-aye.” He made a loose gesture with his hand. “I haven’t written for a show since, like 2008.”</p><p>She gave him one last weak laugh, taking a deep breath. “Anyway, I passed this awesome little fabric store on my way to my meeting with my new assistant. I <em> had </em> to buy out all the good stuff.” She gestured to one pile of fabric, the colors bright and clashing. He loved it all. “I’m gonna start with making some simple dresses, maybe get back into embroidering, and some shirts for you.” She held the piece of fabric in a clear threat. “And don’t you <em> dare </em> get a suit for Bill’s movie premiere. No one’s dressing Trashmouth Tozier but me from now on.” </p><p>“Wouldn’t even think about it.” He swore, mostly because he hadn’t even spared a single brain cell toward thinking over his outfit, ever. “The privilege is yours.” </p><p>Her eyes sparkled like she knew exactly how much of a joke that was, but didn’t call him out on it. </p><p>“So, you’re making us both some new clothes?” Richie took a long obnoxious drink of his coffee while she nodded. “Does that mean you’ll make us matching outfits?” </p><p>Bev lit up, her mouth falling open. “Oh my god.”</p><p>Richie nodded wisely. “Yes.”</p><p>“Oh my god,” she beamed. “That’s such an amazing idea.” </p><p>“Everyone will be so jealous.”</p><p>
  <em> “Yes!”   </em>
</p><hr/><p>A few days later, when Beverly Oh-So-Casually sat next to him on the couch, he was already not having a Great Day. </p><p>A headache, waking up to several angry Steve texts, and no real sleep would do that to him, he supposed. </p><p>“So I was up late last night,” Bev began conversationally. “And I discovered something really interesting.” </p><p>He looked up from his phone, a bit surprised. </p><p>“Wow, you just now discovered that? I mean, you’re a free, single woman, Beverly. You don’t have to tell me about your nighttime activities despite how good it might feel-”</p><p>“How’s Eddie doing?” She interrupted, a patient look on her face. “I'm just really surprised to hear you guys talking, considering you said you two haven’t been talking.”</p><p>Richie looked away, his jaw clenching. “We don’t really talk.”</p><p>“Really?” She tapped her chin with her index finger, thinking. “Because I heard you talking when I got something to drink at midnight. And when I returned the glass two hours later, you were still talking. That’s a long time to ‘not really talk.’”</p><p>He clenched his jaw and pushed himself into a sitting-up position. “It’s whatever.” He was very clearly and very loudly putting out Do Not Disturb signals.</p><p>Bev gave him a judgemental look. </p><p>“We just, talk about stupid shit.” Richie flicked at his phone, opening and closing the Twitter app a handful of times. “Crap movies that have come out the last three decades, video games, his stupid coworker who won’t stop leaving used creamer cups in the break room who he’s threatening to call HR on.”</p><p>“Anything else?” </p><p>He glared at her. “What do you want me to say?” Richie said harshly. </p><p>“Richie.”</p><p>“No, you’re right. We talk about everything except, you know, <em> his wife. </em> Because for our phone calls, he hides in the laundry room so he doesn’t wake up <em> his wife </em> while she sleeps in <em> their bed. </em> But yeah, other than that, we just talk into the late hours about <em> feelings </em> and <em> emotions.”  </em></p><p>“I think you need to acknowledge how deep you’re committing to this relationship.” She said simply. “Especially because yes, Eddie is married to a woman.” </p><p>“Oh, so you’re some kind of relationship therapist now? Please, do tell, where the hell was all that wisdom when you ran out on Benny-boy at the asscrack of dawn? What, were you unable to ‘acknowledge’ your feelings for two weeks?” </p><p>“Richie,” She said, her voice hard. “We’ve had this conversation already. We’re not talking about me.”</p><p>He deflated slightly, the anger leaking out like air in a pinched balloon. </p><p><em> - red balloons, of course, of fucking course, inflating bigger and bigger and bigger until all he sees is red </em> — <em> red like Bev, she’s covered in it - </em></p><p>Richie dug his thumbnail into his palm, taking a deep steady breath in the meantime. “Sorry.” </p><p>Bev sighed. However either of them was hoping this conversation would go, they were both disappointed. “It’s fine. I get it. But Eddie’s married, Richie. You’ve known this since the restaurant. Why are you so upset when I point this out?” </p><p>He was wrinkling his button-up to all-hell, pulling at the buttons to keep his hands busy. </p><p>“You know,” Richie said, “you know why.” </p><p>“But you’ve loved him forever,” she said softly. “What’s different now?” </p><p>“Because,” Richie forced out a sigh. “He’s so fucking miserable, Bev! Maybe he didn’t know it while we were all apart, I mean, who did? But - but now he knows. And I don’t even care if he’s straight. I’ve never thought I could have him. But I thought at least if he was happy and we were friends, that it would be enough.” He swallowed. “But he’s not happy, Bev. He hides in fucking closets for Loser Skype calls and hates his job and takes the long way home so he doesn’t have to go back to that house.”</p><p>“We were supposed to win and be happy.” He said numbly. Bev stood up so she could come stand beside him on the couch, pull his head into her stomach for a hug. “That was supposed to be the deal. We kill the ancient fucking evil demon clown, and we get to be happy and we never had to go back to Derry, Maine.”</p><p>“I wish it was that easy.” Bev let out a breath. “I have nightmares almost every night. You do too.” She continued before Richie could say anything. “Patty was having panic attacks every time Stan took a shower, and Mike’s been having bad flashbacks. Ben…” She trailed off and shook her head. </p><p>Richie sniffled, his face damp. His glasses were digging uncomfortably into his face, but he made no move. </p><p>“And we’ve all been drinking way more than could ever be healthy for us.” She smoothed back his messy hair as he tried to not-too audibly sob into her shirt. “We’re all trying to do better than yesterday, Rich. It’s like…we’re learning how to carry Derry with us. We’re not forgetting it this time. And Eddie’s working through everything just like we all are. He may not be happy but he’s got to figure that out. We’ve just got to be there.”</p><p>“It sucks,” Richie muttered. “I just… I just want him to be happy. He deserves it.” </p><p>“After that shitshow, we <em> all </em>deserve happiness.” She snorted. “I guess the real reward for defeating IT was Derry itself, really.” She smiled slightly. “We won, we got to keep our memories. Shitty ones included.” </p><p>“The real Derry was the one inside of us all along,” Richie said, his voice muffled by her shirt. </p><p>She patted his shoulder. “I have no idea what that means.” </p><p>He finally pulled away and wiped his face, then his glasses off with his shirt. “Sorry for ruining your shirt.” </p><p>She shrugged and plopped down next to him. “You feel better?” He nodded. “Sorry for pushing it. I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were doing.” </p><p>“Well, don’t worry about that, Ms. Marsh, because I never know what I’m doing.” He put his glasses back on and took a wobbly breath. “So, first roommate fight? How was it?”</p><p>She pretended to think it over. “Not bad, I think. Could have been more dramatic. Maybe next time you can storm off and return with apology smoothies, that would be nice.” </p><p>“Speaking of something to drink…” </p><p>“Nope,” she stood. “I’ll make some tea. Patty sent us some of her favorite blends.” </p><p>“Spiked?” </p><p>She paused as she pulled out the dry leaves. “... fine. But only <em> a little.”  </em></p><p>Well, that was good enough for him.</p><hr/><p>They’re twenty minutes into their weekly Skype call when Eddie suddenly leans into the camera, squinting. </p><p>“What the hell, is that <em> three </em>pizza boxes behind you?” His face wrinkles up and Richie Very Much does not have a reaction. “Are you two eating healthy? At all?”</p><p>“Um,” he and Beverly shared a look. “How do you define ‘healthy’?” </p><p>There was a very particular vein in Eddie’s forehead that was making a star guest appearance. “Fruits and vegetables, Richard.” </p><p>“We split a smoothie yesterday?” </p><p>“We had those burritos too!” Beverly added, excited. “I think there were vegetables in there. Maybe tomatoes in the salsa?” </p><p>“You <em> think?” </em></p><p>Stan and Eddie were sharing the same look of horror. Stan leaned forward, his gaze darting across the screen. “Oh my god, Richie, your place looks filthy. You guys are living like frat boys.” Stan looked at Patty in wild question then back the camera. “Why are you doing this?”</p><p>“Freedom, babe-aye!” Richie cupped his hands around his mouth to yell, “You can’t stop us, cop! Just for that-” Richie reached over the arm of the couch to grab at the floor. His fingers found purchase and he held up his prize in victory. “Beverly, would you care to get smashingly drunk with me?” </p><p>She pretended to think. “How many days this week have we drank?”</p><p>“It’s Wednesday? Two times, I think. If we’re starting from Sunday.” </p><p>“Cool.” She blew some air into her messy hair tufted over her forehead. “Let’s go for three!” She cackled and made grabby hands at the half-empty bottle of vodka. “Get the orange juice!” </p><p>“You two are <em> forty years old,” </em>Stan was attempting to stress to them, Eddie nodding vigorously in his own little tile. He and Eddie should really have a club or something. “You can’t drink on weekdays, you’re going to be out of it all day tomorrow!” </p><p>“Yeah, because Beverly and I are just <em> so </em> incredibly busy. We’ll have to spend all morning rescheduling our many social calls and meetings.”</p><p>“Eh,” Mike wrinkled his nose before pulling a beer bottle in front of the camera. “Who can blame them for drinking a little? I’m already a bottle in.” </p><p>Bill snorted and held up a wine glass, full. “You got that right. I had to pour another glass when they were fighting about vegetables.”</p><p>“A toast,” Bev declared once Richie returned with the jug of orange juice, two stacked plastic cups hanging from his fingers. Richie eagerly poured them both drinks. </p><p>Stanley, heavily rolling his eyes, held his mug (tea, probably, like the old man he was) and Patty followed, smiling sweetly like the goddamn angel she was. They’d only exchanged a handful of sentences in Skype meetings so far and Richie was already ready to die for her. </p><p>“Myr - uh, my wife is, um. Sleeping. So.” Eddie fumbled behind his screen to hold up a small cracked open bottle of water. “Here’s what I’ve got.” </p><p>“Aw,” Richie grinned, “Eddie Spaghetti, do you have one of those mini kid bottles there? Are the regular water bottles too big for you?” </p><p>“I’m fucking going to bed soon asshole, I’m not going to drink an entire fucking bottle of water -” </p><p>“A toast,” Bill interrupted before Eddie could really get into it. Ben, in the corner of the screen, was smiling fondly at them all and held up a can of sparkling water to their toast. </p><p>Richie peered down at the screen. “Is that fucking a La Croix, Haystack? You fucking hipster, at least pour yourself some disgusting local brew -” </p><p>Beverly’s hand came down on his leg to squeeze tightly. She held up her glass. “To the Losers, old and new. We’re a family.” Patty looked so touched, she was close to tearing up. Stan patted her shoulder. </p><p>Mike was beaming through the video chat. “Family,” he agreed. “Oh, someone should take a screenshot!” </p><p>“You know, if we’re a family, there’s whole lotta inbreeding happening here.” </p><p>“A family, minus Richie Tozier.” Bev tapped her glass against his. “Everyone say ‘minus Richie’ on three!”  </p><p>Richie, just in time for Ben’s screenshot of their toast, flipped them all off with both hands. Perfect.</p><hr/><p>EDS</p><p>That Skype call was insane. </p><p>Did you drink any water?</p><p>bev made me. It was prolly poison. I feel :((</p><p>Yes, it was definitely poison. That’s definitely why you feel like hell.</p><p>It’s definitely not because you and Bill started taking shots. </p><p>I agree thx 4 always supporting me thru the hard times</p><p>just like ur mom used to do <span class="x1F622"><span class="hide">(Crying Face )</span></span><span class="x1F622"><span class="hide">(Crying Face )</span></span><span class="x1F622"><span class="hide">(Crying Face )</span></span></p><p>I miss her touch everyday</p><p> </p><p>My mother is DEAD. </p><p>not in my heart...<span class="x1F622"><span class="hide">(Crying Face )</span></span></p><p>I’m going to strangle you slowly. </p><p>h0t</p><p>No one will report you missing for days, I’ll be out of the country by then. </p><p>Never to be found.</p><p>How’s writing going?</p><p>HA</p><p>It has not been going at all.</p><p>how r the risks</p><p>Being analyzed. </p><p>Fucking Janice and her fucking creamer cups, I swear to god. </p><p>I’ll fight her for you, Eds, just say the word. </p><p>*Eddie. </p><p>Call in a bit? If you’re still up? </p><p>Always got time for the losers, eds</p><p>In 10 mins? </p><p>Works for me. </p><p>CALL ENDED: “EDS” - 2 HOURS, 48 MINUTES</p><hr/><p>A few days later, he found himself in a similar situation. </p><p>Unlike his twenties, where waking up hungover on a couch meant he only had to down some Gatorade and fried food before being back to tip-top shape, hangovers at 40 meant a lot more groaning and slow-gagging over the carpet as he prayed to turtle-god for his headache to ease. Turtle-god had no pity for him.</p><p>Eventually, he physically rolled off the couch, climbed the arm until he was standing, downed the water bottle, and stumbled over to the kitchen. Bev, who he must have woken up, lingered in the doorway. </p><p>He scratched at his stomach as he squinted at their bare-bones food before giving up. “We’ve got basically nothing.” He called out to her. “Wanna order breakfast burritos from that one place? We can get the loaded hashbrowns.” </p><p>Beverly slowly walked into the room, strangely quiet. He looked at her curiously as he stood at the fridge. “We good?” </p><p>She didn’t respond, only taking a seat at the kitchen bar. </p><p>He tried to pull back last night’s memories. Nothing exceptional stood out. They got drunk on the couch, finished off the box of wine, and laughed over TV. They texted the Losers a selfie and made vague plans to start composting, because of the environment. They swore to marry each other by 50 if they were both still single. Richie fell asleep first mid-rant about one of Eddie’s freckles (the one on his wrist, probably—he was minorly obsessed with it). Beverly, whose wine tolerance meant she only shook her head in shame as Richie went rambling after 3 glasses, must have thrown a pity blanket over him. She even left a water bottle and an empty mixing bowl out for him. Turtle-lord, he truly was an angel. </p><p>All in all, it was a usual drunk night for them. </p><p>She accepted the water bottle he offered her and played with the cap for a few long moments as Richie frantically tried to pin-point where he messed up. Right when he was spiraling toward somehow offending her with his marriage at 50 comment, she spoke up. </p><p>“After you fell asleep, I called Ben.” </p><p>Richie froze, still facing away. “Uh. Did he answer?” </p><p>“Of course he did,” she hissed, burying her face in her hands. “He always answers.” </p><p>Richie turned slowly, his face pulled back in a grimace. “How did it go?” </p><p>“I don’t remember much.” She flicked her gaze up to the ceiling. “I started apologizing and, I don’t know, I think I started crying.” </p><p>“Oh, nooo,” Richie truly tried to gloss the word over with the true amount of horror he was feeling. “How did Benny-boy take that?” </p><p>She rubbed at her brow with her palm. “I think he started crying too? Maybe?” </p><p>“Probably,” Richie agreed, completely unnecessary.</p><p>She dropped her wrists down to the countertop and stared into the marble. “We talked about my dad. And Tom. It wasn’t great. Ben was, of course, but…” She trailed off for a moment. “I didn’t mean to tell him. Everything.” </p><p>Richie gave her a sympathetic look. “But… he responded okay?” </p><p>“I guess.” </p><p>"But you're upset you told him all that?"</p><p>"While I was stupid drunk and rambling, yes."</p><p>She looked so completely, wholly miserable. She almost looked like she was about to start crying.</p><p>He couldn’t take another second of it. </p><p>“C’mon, get dressed.” Richie pulled one of Bev’s canvas bags out of the cabinet and began filling it up. “We’re going out.” </p><p>She gave him a confused look, momentarily distracted. “What?” </p><p>“Get dressed,” He repeated. “I’ve been meaning to take you somewhere since you arrived. You’re not feeling too hungover?”</p><p>She shook her head. He agreed—turtle-god must have been listening. </p><p>She slid off the barstool, gave him another curious look, but patted off to her bedroom to (hopefully) change.</p><p>An hour later, most of it in the car, he pulled into a parking spot and flicked the car off. Beverly was already grinning as she threw open the door and rushed out. </p><p>“The beach,” a laugh bubbled out of her lips. “I haven’t been to the beach since…” Her smile faded just slightly. “My honeymoon, I guess. It’s been years.” </p><p>“Well, I don’t know what five-star resort you skipped around, but L.A.’s definitely up to par.” He made a wide gesture toward a pile of littered beer cans in the sand. “I mean, where else can you find such quality, hipster garbage? And don’t say Bill’s house, that’s mean.” </p><p>She rolled her eyes. “You tease Bill so much, but you’ve been following him around since, what, you two were in diapers?”</p><p>“Considering ol’ Billy-boy was in diapers till we were ten, that doesn’t mean much.”</p><p>She snapped her fingers like he was proving her point. “You know, if you weren’t so head over heels for he-who-shall-not-be-named, I would have thought you were mooning over Bill.” </p><p>He gave her a dull look. “You really want to talk about childhood crushes on Bill, Ms. Marsh?” </p><p>Her cheeks colored as she looked away to the skyline. He grabbed their things, including the backseat blanket put there by Bev herself, and threw it over his shoulders. There was a decent amount of people, despite being the middle of the day on a weekday, but not enough to overwhelm them. They probably wouldn’t even be recognized. </p><p>He was wearing one of his new Marsh original shirts—light and baggy, open over a tank top just like he liked it, with a black and dark green pattern of turtles. It was a bit too understated for his usual “will this give someone a headache if I wear it in public” but it was already vastly nicer than most of his wardrobe. Seemed perfect for the day, and Bev had beamed when she saw it. </p><p>Bev waited for him on the edge of the sand, smiling softly as she followed him down the beach. She picked her flip-flips up by the plastic and dug her feet into the hot sand. She watched as he threw the blanket out over a clear spot and set their things down. He sat down, spreading out his legs, and she did the same. She wasn’t wearing a swimsuit, neither was he, but that had never stopped them as kids.</p><p>“Gonna jump in?” </p><p>“I’m not one much for water,” she gave him a half-shrug. “Not since, you know.”</p><p>
  <em> - a flash of murky water, his hand desperately reaching out for hers as she was pulled, pulled down - </em>
</p><p>“Me neither.” They had swum at the quarry (they had to, they had to) but he couldn’t imagine doing the same now. Even putting his head under the showerhead for too long made his heart leap into his throat. </p><p>She tipped her head toward the sky, closing her eyes. “The sun is nice, though.” </p><p>Richie nodded and did the same, letting the heat bake them. He wouldn’t tan, and neither would she, but they’d both slathered on enough sunscreen they’d probably just end up freckled. </p><p>His eyes still closed, he said, “Ben’s good. I don’t know how the Losers grabbed him up, but he’s good. And you two get each other.” She didn’t say anything. “He’s not going to run the other way if you tell him stuff, Bev. He’s not like that.” </p><p>“I know.” She said quietly. “And I know he would never hurt me. And I think that scares me in a way.” She exhaled. “I knew what to expect from my father, or fucking Tom, or any of my deadbeat college boyfriends. But with Ben…” She trailed off. “When he gets mad, what is he going to do? If he’s not going to hit me, what -” She made a huff of frustration. “What’s he going to do?”</p><p>“It’s Ben,” Richie said. “First, I don’t think he <em> could </em> get seriously mad at any of us, but you in particular. If he’s upset, he’ll tell you. If you’re upset, you’ll tell him. And again, <em> it’s Ben. </em>He cried when E.T. went home. And let’s be honest,” Richie said quietly. “Ben being angry at you is like me getting seriously mad at Eddie. I get upset, but mad? I…” He trailed off. “I can’t. You know that.”</p><p>“I know.” Their voices were the same low, quiet note at this point. “I know. He’s good.” </p><p>He didn’t reply, but it didn’t feel like he needed to. He kept his eyes closed. </p><p>When he opened his eyes back up, probably ten minutes later, she had opened her bag across the blanket and was focusing on the project in her hands. She was sewing some kind of colorful design onto the bottoms of a pair of jean shorts, a patch, too. She must have stuffed it into her bag to keep herself entertained. She looked content—settled, in a way Richie never really managed to get. </p><p>He did what he usually did when he was somewhere unfamiliar on the rare occasion he didn’t feel like talking or performing for whoever he was with—thinking over how he could make the moment into a joke, into a bit for him to disappear into on stage. </p><p>He flipped their scene over in his hands, examining it from every angle looking for where it would give, where it was loose enough to pry open a corner and slide in some punchline or witty remark. Bev, sitting next to him on the old blanket, was completely absorbed in her work. </p><p>Maybe this scene would tell funnier if they got caught in traffic, never made it to the beach, or if one of Bev’s old flames was here and he had to fight for her honor with a beach towel and Whole Foods bag. He could sneak in some bit about their old people smoothies, or how they skipped coffee after 4 p.m. so they wouldn’t be up all night. He imagined how he’d throw his arms out with the punchline, march up and down the space, how he’d own the stage with recited lines that weren’t even his. </p><p>Maybe he could tell it funnier by throwing in a story about Bev picking a fight with a food stand worker, or if he said that he started crying in the car while they were stuck in traffic, or some stupid made-up story about getting drunk and throwing himself into the ocean and Bev having to fish him out with a turkey sandwich. Maybe the moment was already joke enough, just by his closeted ass sitting there. </p><p>Or maybe the joke would be funnier if Bev was a guy. Maybe it would be fucking hilarious. </p><p>“Beverly,” he said, “you know I’ve never told anyone? That I’m?” </p><p>She set her needle and shorts to the side, quiet and serious. She faced him head-on. Every day, she looked more like herself at 13. She was fierce with it. It was almost unfair, her backward aging. </p><p>“Tell me, Richie.” She said softly. </p><p>It was her eyes, he realized. She’d shown up in Derry bruised and bleeding, in her eyes most of all. But every day, she was more laugh lines and grins. By turtle-god, he loved her. </p><p>“Beverly Marsh,” He said, no joke middle name, not this time, not when he was already enough joke for both of them. Jesus. They’re forty. They’re middle-aged. </p><p>He had to mentally shake those thoughts away. Not now, not with this. He tried again. “Beverly Marsh, I’m.” He swallowed. <em> You’re braver than you think, </em>Eddie’s wide and serious eyes staring at him, deep and terrifying. “I’m gay. I like men. I’ve always liked men.” </p><p>She reached out and grabbed his hand in hers. “Thank you for telling me. I love you.” </p><p>Richie squeezed back. “You too, Molls.” </p><p>And would you look at that—she didn’t even shove him into the sand. </p><hr/><p>A few days later, Richie found himself thrown across the couch in pajamas and socks, nearly about to hopefully beat that level’s boss in <em> Luigi’s Mansion 3, </em>when Beverly suddenly gasped and sat up from the other side of the couch. He watched as Luigi got absolutely kick-stomped to death by a group of breakdancing ghosts, wondered how his life ended up here, and paused the game before the death animation could play out. He looked over where Bev was staring wide-eyed at her phone screen. </p><p>“Ben finally send nudes?” He craned his neck, “You better fuckin’ share, my man.” </p><p>“I’m not your ‘man,’” She said absentmindedly, scrolling. He waited very patiently like the patient soul he was before tossing a throw pillow over at her after approximately 3 seconds. She batted it away without a second thought, still focused on her screen. Good—he had trained her well. </p><p>She grimaced. “We were papped.” She holds out her phone, the photos already glowing on her screen. He took it with a frown and swiped through them. The photos were from just a few days ago when they ran out for a bubble tea and sushi pickup instead of having it delivered. Bev had insisted the sun would do them some good. In the photos, they’d been unwashed for the day and messy by celebrity standards, but they still thankfully looked relatively normal by random-people-on-the-street standards (if a bit pale, but predictably neither he nor Bev managed to tan after their beach adventure). Bev was wearing one of his not-horrible worn-out shirts with the glow in the dark <em> Ghostbusters </em>logo peeling off in places, and a pair of bright green shorts she claimed to use as work out gear, not that Richie would know anything about that. Richie was in sweatpants and an old band t-shirt from the 90s, and looked mostly normal. </p><p>They weren't touching in any of them, but the photos managed to capture the quick moment when Bev had offered a taste of her bubble tea and he'd bend down to drink from her straw. It'd been too bitter for him and she, being a monster, had even sprung for regular tapioca instead of strawberry bubbles. In the last photo, she was laughing, her hand over her mouth, at Richie's wrinkled look of disgust. </p><p>He handed back that phone and shrugged at her small look of worry. As Richie’s agent could testify, it wasn’t nearly the worst he’d been papped. If anything, showing someone actively enjoying his presence for once might actually improve his public perception.</p><p>She glanced up to him, quick then gone. “They think we’re dating. It’s-” She pulled her phone back up to her face to swipe a few times before reading, “'Comedian ‘Trashmouth Tozier’ spotted with fashion designer Beverly Marsh only weeks after Marsh suddenly filed for divorce against her dedicated husband of eleven years and business partner, Tom Rogan. Could this be an epic love story in the making, or just another crash-and-burn, like Tozier’s latest show?'"</p><p>Richie wrinkled his nose. “Could have been worse. What’s Twitter saying?”</p><p>She sighed and flicked her thumb across her screen. “Disbelief, mostly. Which makes sense, considering none of us have publically interacted before. But,” finally, she clicked her phone off and tossed it to the side. “Of course, there’s hate.” </p><p>“What are they saying?” </p><p>“It’s nothing Greta Keene didn’t vandalize my locker with,” she muttered, crossing her wrists over her eyes. </p><p>He winced, “That bad?” </p><p>“It’s not great. But it’s whatever. They're probably just all over it because Tom announced my official leave last week. ” She stood, probably off to her room/design office to work out her frustration. “I don’t like what they’re saying, and it's definitely not going to help the divorce but,” she shrugged. “I’ll survive. Sorry you got dragged into it.” She walked off, a few steps.  </p><p>“What if I came out?”</p><p>The words were out before he even knew he was considering it. Bev froze promptly, her socks sliding a bit on the hardwood. She turned to him slowly. </p><p>“Rich?” </p><p>He looked at her, meeting her eyes. “What if I came out?"  </p><p>She was already shaking her head. “You don’t have to do that for me. This needs to be on your own terms.”</p><p>“These<em> are </em>my own terms.” His voice was so much more steady than he felt. He looked down at his blank phone and nodded. “Bev, I’m ready. I’m tired of hiding. The stupid clown was still able to fucking hold that over me after 27 years. I’m done.” He paused to shot off a text to Steve. Steve knew, of course, but had no idea that Richie’d been considering coming out. Well, if he was half the decent manager he always bragged about being he’d have something ready.  "I'm ready. I've been thinking about this for a while." </p><p>Richie took a breath. Bev’s eyes were wide. “Guess I should tell the group first, right?” </p><p>LOSERS</p><p>TRASHMOUTH: </p><p>hey can we skype tonight? In an hr? kinda important</p><p>HAYSTACK:</p><p>Yes! I can clear my schedule. </p><p> </p><p>BILLIAM:</p><p>That should work! </p><p> </p><p>EDS:</p><p>Yeah.</p><p> </p><p>BIRD BOY URINE: </p><p>Yes. Are you alright with Patty sitting in, or is this private? </p><p>TRASHMOUTH: </p><p>actually, only patty is invited. u can sit in the hallway.</p><p>BIRD BOY URINE:</p><p>I swear, killing you won’t even be ruled a murder. </p><p>A favor, maybe. </p><p> </p><p>HOMESCHOOL:</p><p>I haven’t checked into my hotel yet, but it should have decent wifi! </p><p>TRASHMOUTH:</p><p>nice</p><p>BEVERLY BABE:</p><p>
  <span class="x1F644"> <span class="hide">(Face With Rolling Eyes )</span> </span>
</p><p>Richie keeps asking if I think Bev will be able to come since she hasn’t responded in the chat. So. </p><p>Yes, Richie, I can definitely attend the Skype call in which I will be sitting next to you. </p><p>TRASHMOUTH:</p><p>Oh wow, perf</p><p>Beverly grabbed his hand. It was only slightly shaking. </p><p>“I’ve got you.” She said seriously. “We love you and we support you. But I’m here and I’ve got you, okay?” </p><p>Richie squeezed her hand, probably too tight. He nodded, and lifted his chin. </p><hr/><p>From the moment everyone logged on, the mood was subdued. A horrible, screaming part of him was already in anguish. <em> They know! They have to know! </em></p><p><em> So fucking what if they do, </em> Richie had to mentally shove the thoughts away. <em> I’m literally about to confirm it! Who cares! </em></p><p>He jumped straight (ha) into it. </p><p>“I know you guys have probably seen the photos posted of Bev and I this week.” God, Richie was going to get hives from using his Serious Voice so much. He always just tried to channel his father’s disappointment after Richie tried to like, speak to him, and worked up from there. “This is a conversation better done in person but…” He shared a look with Bev. “My manager is going to start prepping some press release about it, but. I wanted you guys to hear it from me.” </p><p>They all nodded, one by one. No one said anything, and he was gripping Bev’s hand so hard, it was no doubt aching. When he tried to pull away, she only held on tighter.</p><p>“Okay.” He looked up to the webcam. Maybe it was good they were doing over fucking Skype. If all else fails, he could just chuck his laptop into the pool. “Alright. Well.” He cleared his throat. “I guess I’m just trying to say that all these years I’ve been making jokes about Eddie's mom when I should have been making them about his dad.” Why did he have to mention Eddie. WHY.</p><p>There was a beat of silence as his words sunk in. “Anyway, I’m gay. So. That’s the big, dirty secret.” </p><p>“It’s not dirty,” Beverly said instantly, squeezing his hand again. “Don’t say that.” </p><p>He waved off her words with his free hand, anxiety climbing up his throat. Most of them, except for fucking Stan and perfect Patty of course, looked at least a few degrees of surprise. </p><p>God, Eddie looked like someone knocked him over the goddamn head. </p><p>His 13-year-old voice: <em> Don’t fucking touch me, Richie!  </em></p><p>Bill’s “Is this a bit?” was completely drowned out as Mike spoke over him with ease. “Thank you for telling us,” Mike smiled his perfect fucking grin at them. “That must have been really difficult to say. We love you in matter what, Rich, nothing would ever change that."</p><p>“What Mike said,” Stan and Patty had the same soft smiles on. Did they practice that in the mirror at marriage-school or something? </p><p>“Really, Richie.” Ben’s eyes were so wide and earnest, Richie wanted to choke. “Thank you. I’m really honored that you chose to tell us in person. Or, uh, over video. You’re really brave.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Richie grinned widely.<em> Eddie still hadn’t said anything, </em>the little goblin in his head screamed. “Being a big ol’ homo is really the pillar of my courage. If I was straight, I’d never had been able to wack that fucking clown out.”</p><p>Mike burst out with a loud laugh, “I mean, same.” </p><p>Which was… interesting. </p><p>Bill, who seemed to slowly realize that this was not, in fact, a bit, stumbled to catch up. “That’s cool! I mean, that’s nice. That you told us. I mean, it’s nice you’re gay too. I mean-” </p><p>Richie wanted to light something on fire. Himself, maybe. “How are you a writer?” </p><p>“It’s easier when I can think over my words!” He protested much to their laughter. Richie couldn’t fake it for very long and trailed off to silence. It went quiet, each of them somewhat waiting. Bev was tapping away at her phone. </p><p>“Thank you for telling us,” Eddie finally said, soft and careful and nothing like he normally was. Richie’s heart sank. </p><p>They exchanged a few more words on the subject of Richie’s ever-so-gayness, settled on some traveling details for Bill’s movie premiere coming up, and, after ten minutes of well-meaning and rambling goodbyes, they ended the call. </p><p>And just like that, he was out to his friends. He told his friends, the most important people he’d ever met, the secret he’d been hiding since he knew exactly what he was feeling as a snot-nosed kid when Stan threw a bony arm over his shoulders, when Eddie would hand over a melting cone. </p><p>He wanted to face himself at 13 carving a pair of initials into wood, or at 16 when Eddie cried into his shirt and he had to pretend he wasn’t doing the same, or at 20 when he made out with a random dude in a bar bathroom and then sobbed when he got home, or at 24, at 29, 34, 37. Or at 40, when he turned a left into a Chinese restaurant in bumfuck Derry, Maine and Eddie was standing there like a light at the end of a long, horrible, lonely tunnel. God, he wanted to face himself, grab onto his chin all-rough like his father used to do on his good days, and meet his own gaze and show him this—just a peek, just enough to promise that <em> we will be okay.  </em></p><p>Hours after the Skype call ended, in which Richie resisted the temptation to empty a few more wine bottles (no more sad drinking, he and Bev had made it a rule on the fridge whiteboard and everything), Richie’s phone beeped with a text. </p><p>EDS</p><p>You’re braver than you think.</p><p> </p><p>It was 4 in the morning in New York. Richie let go of a shaky breath. He texted back.</p><p> </p><p>You too, Eds.</p><p>See you in a week.</p><p>Don't call me Eds.</p><p>Yeah. See you.</p><p>Eat a fucking vegetable. </p><p>Idiot.</p><hr/><p>They looked like a couple of tourists, and it was amazing. </p><p>They were wearing <a href="https://i5.walmartimages.com/asr/0bfcb79b-32b0-4671-b0ba-b82272e4c27a_1.00092a9b01c16786abe099b567010f85.jpeg?odnWidth=612&amp;odnHeight=612&amp;odnBg=ffffff">the matching outfit</a> Bev had whipped up. His was styled as one of his trademark baggy button-ups, and hers was a flowing dress in the same loud, flowery fabric. In sunglasses and floppy hats, they were a pair of picture-perfect lost, annoying tourists. He loved every second. </p><p>They were eating street cart fruit and smoothies on a bench when she looked up, the sun catching on her large dramatic sunglasses, and said, “Rich, I think it’s time I get back to my life.”</p><p>He was mid-bite of a mango piece covered in red salt when she spoke, and he froze mid-crunch. He forced his mouth to keep chewing, then to swallow. </p><p>“Oh,” he said. A strange stupid rock of disappointment weighed down his chest. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, of course. That’s great, Bev.” </p><p>She bit her lip. “The lawyers came to a decision. I’m selling back my company stock and resigning. Tom’s getting <em> Marsh and Rogan, </em>as long as he rebrands and removes my image and name. I need to start over and…” She gave him a half-shrug, “I don’t want that anymore. It’s all commissioned or his boring designs mostly, so I don’t care much.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Richie agreed. He had peeked at the company website out of curiosity and, yeah. The plain, safe designs probably sold well enough, but not a single thing he saw there screamed—and he knew, if Beverly Marsh designed something, it would <em> scream</em>—her cool, colorful, careful style. </p><p>She continued. “So, my divorce is almost finalized and I’m starting over with my own company.”</p><p>“Bev…” Richie took a breath, almost choked up. “That’s really great.” </p><p>Even with disappointment bubbling in his chest, Bev was healing. He’d have to be a real shit person not to get that. </p><p>“You’re going to do great. New company, new boyfriend.” Richie poked her with the end of his fork. “Bev Marsh is gonna have it all.” </p><p>“Yeah, I am.” She looked up at him, smiling slightly. “And L.A. seems like a good place to do it. Mind if I crash a bit longer?” </p><p>Richie couldn’t hold off the goofy wide grin that wanted to erupt. He leaned forward, fuck the fruit, to grab her up into a tight hug. </p><p>“But…” Richie gave her a questioning look and pulled back slightly, “what about Haystack?”</p><p>“He’s…” She trailed off, her lips curling up. “He’s taking a job here, apparently. He wanted to make sure I was okay with it.” </p><p>“And?”</p><p>She let out a breath. “I’m so happy he’s coming.” She whispered. “I’m excited. I think we’re dating.”  </p><p>“I bet Ben’s over the moon.”</p><p>She smiled softly. “<em>I’m </em>over the moon. He’s such a good guy.” </p><p>Richie huffed out a breath. “Happy for you, Marsh. If anyone deserves happiness, you and Hanscom are up there. Remember when you stabbed a clown in the eye for little ol’ me? That’s good karma, babe-aye.” </p><p>“Bill was also there.” She paused. “You deserve happiness too, Tozier.” </p><p>Richie snorted and waved her off but Ms. Marsh apparently wasn’t having that. </p><p>“Rich,” She tried again. “You deserve happiness. And I think it’s time you got back to your life too.” </p><p>He let out a breath at her words. “Yeah. Yeah, I think you’re right.” She sat quietly waiting for him to continue. “Steve booked some basic voiceover stuff, but I’ve been thinking about writing some material.” He looked away. “Like, for another show. But I write everything.” </p><p>She lit up. “That’s amazing, Rich!” </p><p>“It still needs a lot of work. Nothing’s happening like, extremely soon.” </p><p>“You should pitch it to Stan. If you can make him laugh, you’ll be golden.” </p><p>“Puh-lease, I cracked the code to making Stan Uris laugh when I was 14 years old. He’s a sucker for subtlety and callbacks. Tell a fart joke and you’ll lose him.” </p><p>“So, the exact opposite of Eddie?” She poked him. “Is that why Stan never laughs at your jokes?”</p><p>“Listen, you have to pick an audience and keep to it.” And Richie Tozier, circa nine years old, had done exactly that. </p><p>“Whatever you say, Trashmouth.” </p><hr/><p>A few days later—most of which Bev spent her time cursing loudly at her headless mannequin Richie had lovingly named “Bill 2”—and it was time for the movie premiere.  </p><p>“Alright,” Beverly gave him one last critical one-over. “You’re good to go. You look great, Rich.” </p><p>“Oh, thank you, it’s a Beverly Marsh original, you see.” Richie gave her a little spin. “It’s one of a kind.”</p><p>“It’s special, just like you.” She gave him a sickly sweet smile. “Everyone at school used to talk about how special Richie Tozier was. Good to prove them right.” </p><p>“I’ll have you know, I graduated with a 3.8 GPA.” He flipped his curls very dramatically. “And I only cheated sometimes!” </p><p>“I find that hard to believe,” Stan Uris, the light of his life, said as he walked in, adjusting his cuff-links. Patty, a few steps behind him, easily stepped in to fix them for him. “I hate to admit it, but you guys have a nice place here. Thanks for letting Patty and I get ready here.” </p><p>“Of course,” Bev smiled and reached out to smooth the silk of Patty’s gown. Bev had designed that too, but had gone subtle classy to match Stan’s plain (but well-fitted, Richie admitted) suit. She’d been busy the last few weeks, but happily so. Although, her room was a nightmare of fabric and pins. Richie had stepped on a needle when he dared to wander in barefoot and whined about it for at least an hour. </p><p>Patty, satisfied with Stan’s cufflinks, turned to face Richie. Who, he just realized, he had never actually met. </p><p>“It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Richie.” Patty smiled, all dimples and sparkling eyes. She had just the slightest southern accent that wasn’t as obvious over laptop speakers. “Beverly and I were already acquainted this morning.”</p><p>Richie stepped forward, smiling widely. “Oh, Patty Blum Uris? Stan the Man’s famous wife? What a pleasure. I assume they call you Mrs. Urine?"</p><p>Patty's sweet, warm, lovely smile twisted into something a bit sharper. Her voice was still high and sweetly delicate as she spoke. "Oh, it's just Mrs. Blum-Uris, actually. You're Richard, right? I assume they call you Dick?" Before Richie could correct her, she continued. "That's nothing to do with your name, just an assumption after knowing you for 10 seconds."</p><p>Richie honked, like a fucking goose. </p><p>“I love you,” Richie said, his voice glossed over with wonder. “Stanny, where the hell did you find this woman?” </p><p>“In the trash,” he said deadpan. Patty swatted at him.</p><p>“Oh, please, you need to stop telling people that, my mother near faints every time you mention it.” She gave them an apologetic look. “Technically, I wasn’t in the <em> trash. </em> The dumpster was empty.” </p><p>Beverly grabbed onto his arm before he could dig into that sweet, sweet beautiful story. They matched—her tight emerald green dress shined the same tone as his suit, and the bright colored ruffles that flared out from her knees matched his tie. Apparently, they were dates. </p><p>“Everyone ready? We can finish this in the limo. Mike will lovingly kill us all if we’re late and stress Bill out even more.” </p><p>Patty went starry-eyed.<em> “Limo?”  </em></p><hr/><p>The limo drove up the event a cool 65-minutes later (thanks L.A. traffic!) and Bev instructed the driver to pull off to a small, nondescript side street so they would pile out and regroup. The groupchat, which had been filled with mostly the same “where are you??” and “on our way” texts since before they even left the house, blew up again as Stan texted their arrival. </p><p>“There’s probably a side room set up for the producers.” Bev tapped away a response to whatever Bill was panicking about. “C’mon, I told Mike to clear us in security. It should be somewhere over here.”</p><p>Stan cocked his head to the side but followed. “How do you know that?” </p><p>“I dated a producer for a bit,” she said absentmindedly, looking around. “I had to go to a few premieres.”</p><p>They all knew better than to ask about her exes, so they continued along without question. </p><p>After a few minutes, thankfully avoiding the press for the most part, Bev made a small noise of victory and pointed to a nondescript black canvas tent, blending into the other stage and media tech. The security waved them by, looking somewhat sour, and they poured in. </p><p>Thankfully, Bill seemed to be the only producer utilizing the tent at the moment as he was curled on a fold-out chair. Mike was crouched at Bill’s side, probably giving him an inspirational pep-talk that would shed tears and break bank if monetized, while Eddie stood off the side awkwardly. Eddie pointed at Bill and gave them all a quick thumbs-down, as if to signify Bill’s completely obvious thumbs-down state of mind. Richie loved that man. </p><p>Stan immediately shed his jacket, threw it over the chair, and went to Bill’s other side to speak quietly to him. Bill looked somewhat relieved to see them and gave them each a shakey smile. At that, Richie’s mind provided a mental question mark emoji as he looked over them all, counting. </p><p>“Ben’s running late,” Bev said to him quietly, as if reading his mind. “He should be here soon.” Her phone started ringing in her palm and she stepped away to take it, making a face as she did so. Not Ben, then. </p><p>Eddie drifted over to Richie and Patty, looking even more relieved than Bill at their presence. “Took your sweet damn time, didn’t you?” </p><p>“Oh, we were caught in the most awful traffic,” Patty <em>tsked </em>from Richie’s side. “We tried to leave early but, oh well. Did we miss much?”</p><p>Eddie’s gaze snapped from Richie to stare in surprise at Patty. “Oh. Oh! Uh, Patty! It’s nice to meet you, I’m, um, sorry, I was making fun of Richie.” Speaking to perfect angel Patty, Eddie was the picture of manners as he shook her hand and smiled sweetly at her. </p><p>Beverly hadn’t dressed him—she’d offered but he insisted his own suits were good enough, that stubborn fuck—but turtle-god. He didn’t even need it.</p><p>“Oh, that’s completely understandable.” She shot him a look of humor. “It’s nice to meet you too, Eddie. You’re from New York City, right? How was your flight?” </p><p>Eddie looked slightly uncomfortable but went along with her small talk easily enough. When they were done, Richie shot a look over at Bill and nodded in his direction. “What’s he freaking out about anyway?” </p><p>Eddie looked over with him. “Apparently, this movie’s success is a factor in another big producing gig or something. And everything with Audra and their counselor… a lot of stuff has come out.” He grimaced. “He’s been really stressed about today. I think he’s focusing on it instead of everything else.” </p><p>Richie winced, “What did he tell Audra?” </p><p>“Everything except, uh, IT. But he gave her enough of the details.” Eddie shook his head. “Bill was telling me about her reaction and she didn’t take it very well.” </p><p>“You guys talk?” Richie said with surprise. </p><p>“Yeah?” Eddie went slightly defensive. “Why the hell wouldn’t we?” </p><p>“What about your wife, Eddie?” Patty’s sweet voice interrupted to ask. “How are you two doing? I’m surprised not to see her here.”</p><p>Both of them froze. Richie wanted to rip off his suit and scream at the sky. </p><p>The <em> #1 rule </em> of Eddie and Richie’s interactions was: Do Not Speak of The Wife. And Eddie fucking knew that, because Richie is probably the most obvious person ever, and was nice enough not to mention his fucking wife to the guy who was ass over heart in love with him. But <em> now -  </em></p><p>“She’s in New York,” Eddie said careful and stiff. “I came on my own.”</p><p>That was all he seemed to want to say on that, not that Richie minded in the slightest. </p><p>Patty was probably going to follow that up with some kind and well-meaning remarks but, thankfully, Beverly returned then from her phone call. </p><p>Bev turned off her phone and sighed as her heels <em> clicked </em>over. "My agent wants me to talk to the head designer about fashion week." She tucked her phone away somewhere completely mysterious—no visible pockets, he had checked—and held out an elbow to Eddie. She had a perfect pink smile on her face. "Walk me?" </p><p>A small, shy smile curled its way across Eddie’s face as he took Bev’s arm, looking so fucking trim and compact in this neat little fucking suit as she led him away. Richie could feel heartache down to goddamn bones. </p><p>As they left, the security guard held open the tent flap for them to dip under, exposing the end of the red carpet. Patty gasped and asked loudly, "Is that Laura Dern?"</p><p>Bill doesn't even look over, still too busy hyperventilating, but still attempted an answer.  "Pro-probably. She and one of the actors are good fri-friends." Mike very helpfully pushed a paper bag into his hands.</p><p>"That's neat," Mike said soothingly. "She was in <em> Marriage Story, </em>right?" </p><p>Bill choked on his breath, looking up in offense, at least momentarily distracted now. "<em> W-w-what </em> . She <em> made Marriage Story, </em>her per-performance held up that movie miles more than Sadface Johansson-" He was absolutely crushing the paper bag at this point. Stan made a noise of protest at this side. </p><p>Patty frowned, just slightly. "I didn't like that one too much," she admitted just to him, her voice soft with secrecy. Richie leaned in. "They were so cruel to each other, for what? They should have just been more open with each other."</p><p>Richie, as a homosexual, has had absolutely Zero Interest in watching that film ever, even as Twitter blew up about it at its height of popularity. Still, he nodded along with Patty’s words. He trusted her like he’d known her for years. </p><p>A few minutes later filled with idle chatter about Netflix movies, Patty wandered back to Stan to lay a comforting hand on Bill’s shoulder. He looked up at her like the angel she was. </p><p>Just when Richie was getting some Dangerous Ideas about finding Eddie just to elbow him a handful of times so he’d get all pissy, the tarp flap lifted and Buff Jesus Himself emerged. </p><p>"I’m here, I’m here! Sorry, I'm late," Ben gushed, almost tripping over the tent entrance like the clumsy little meatball Richie remembered him as. He cast a look around the tent, perking up at Richie’s lazy wave, and then gave them all a wide-eyed look, his heart in his eyes. "Oh, did Bev leave already?"</p><p>In terms of Emotions, Richie was more <em> conceal, don’t feel, get fucked up in the meantime </em> and Ben was more <em> play Backstreet Boys until She Knows </em> and <em> gaze into her eyes and support her in everything she does no matter what. </em>On the official Losers (™) pining over your childhood sweetheart scale, Richie’s fucked up prescription couldn’t even squint-see Ben from their total opposite ends. </p><p>Stan pointed through the flap to where Beverly was still schmoozing, Eddie only looking slightly uncomfortable at her side. Fuck, that suit was like a second skin on him. Richie wasn’t sure if he wanted to pay his tailor in riches or demand payment for his loss of gay brain cells. </p><p>Ben’s shoulders—turtle-god, those shoulders—dropped in relief. His tense expression folded up, relief and love and softness taking its place. </p><p>He turned to speak softly to Bill first, then turned all thousand megawatts of genuine red-hot man onto Richie. </p><p>“Richie,” Ben smiled all soft and shy. “It’s so good to see you!” </p><p>It was impossible not to smile back at Ben Hanscom. They should do studies on it. “Haystack, good to see you. What, you save a few dozen cats in trees on your way here?” </p><p>His face reddened in a nice charming sort of way. When Richie blushed too hard, people asked if they needed to call for an ambulance. </p><p>“Just an unfortunate flight delay, that’s all.” Ben reached out to grab Richie’s shoulder and squeeze. "Hey, it's not my place, and I know you'd do the same for any of us but -" Richie hadn't been touched this much, and this affectionately, since he was 16. He could get drunk on it. "Thanks for letting Beverly move in. I was so worried when she went back to New York but-" He shook his head, his eyes shiny. "I just feel so much better knowing you're taking care of each other. You both seem to be having so much fun and I’m so happy you’re both healing from Derry."</p><p>Richie leaned back slightly, blinking rapidly. “Ben, if you cry on me and ruin this suit, Beverly will kill both of us.” </p><p>And with that, Beverly, whose spidey-sense probably went off when Ben entered the vicinity and booked it as fast as she could in her towering heels, was suddenly at Richie’s shoulder. </p><p>“New Kid,” she said, breathless, leaning on Richie’s shoulder as she swayed. Yeah, she definitely ran. “I was wondering when you were gonna show up.” </p><p>Richie felt like he was intruding just by standing here, with Bev’s cheeks turning a soft pink. </p><p>Ben, obviously and of course, went speechless at Bev’s sudden presence. Richie wanted to pat his head in pity like he used to do, but probably wouldn’t be able to comfortably lift his arm so high in this suit. He settled on a look of sympathy. </p><p>“Beverly,” Ben breathed out. Richie was <em> definitely </em>intruding at this point. “You look great. I mean, you always look beautiful but your dress! You designed this?” Ben looked down at her gown in awe. “I mean, I was totally listening when you were talking about it but, uh, I got kind of lost when it came to the technical stuff.” He winced like he was totally fucking it up. “But I took notes! I’m still not sure what they mean though. You look amazing.”</p><p>Beverly smiled prettily, “I made this, yeah. Thank you.” Her eyes flickered to Richie then back to Ben. “Am I interrupting something?” </p><p>“Never,” Ben reassured her. “I was just telling Richie how glad I am that you two are taking care of each other.” He smiled shyly and, like a smack on the head, Richie could vividly see the same sweet smile 27 years younger. He still dipped his head slightly when his cheeks reddened like he was still 4’7 and hiding in the library on the weekends.  </p><p>Beverly, looking slightly dazed, might be feeling exactly the same. </p><p>Alright, time for him to flee. He turned his head. Bill was looking loads better, Mike still at his side and laughing at something Stan was muttering. Patty stood with Stan looking perfectly polite and sweet. </p><p>A dangerous arm length away, Eddie was looking much too good, standing on his own. </p><p>He quickly slid up to Patty, winked at her, and very smoothly stole her away from Stan's side. She wove her arm through his like it was second nature. "Dearest Patty Cake," he shot her a teasing look. "Walk the red carpet with me?"</p><p>She instantly perked up, a delighted smile coming to her face. She squeezed his arm with her hand, glowing. “Yes! I would love to!” She turned to look for Stan, who was already watching them with a smile. She held up a pair of excited thumbs up to Stan, who gave her a warm smile and single thumbs up in return. She giggled, her clear blue eyes wide behind her tortoiseshell frames. She must have gone to the salon this morning; her hair was twisted up into a fancy updo that didn’t look out of place among the glamour and glitter of the carpet. </p><p>Richie led them out of the tent, straight onto the red carpet already packed with reporters and various celebrities. Patty clenched at his arm in excitement, smiling widely.</p><p>A reporter on the edge of the carpet quickly caught sight of him and waved him over. He pasted a crooked grin on. </p><p>When approached, he followed the loose script Steve had texted over, mostly just highlighting some upcoming voice work and an emphasis on his comeback. For the fucks of it, he hinted at new material because, well, why not? </p><p>They were set to release his coming out statement within the week. He didn't want to deal with the press, especially this being Bill's event, so they scheduled it afterward. Knowing that, knowing that this was his last time in the public as Obnoxiously Straight Trashmouth Dick Tozier, his grins never came easier. </p><p>When not approached by over-eager and super smiling reporters, he spent some time awkwardly posing in front of flashing cameras—he never knew what to do with his arms! Sue him! It’s not like they taught that in Hollywood school! Or maybe they did but by turtle-god, he will die never have listened to a word Steve told him!—and the rest bending around various C- and B- list celebrities while whispering dirty jokes into Patty’s ear. </p><p>And, when she responded in equal grossness and quick wit, he honked out a laugh and pulled back to demand, “Where did<em> that </em> come from?” </p><p>"I teach middle-schoolers math for a living, love." She reached out to pat his cheek, suddenly so motherly Richie had flashbacks to Maggie Tozier reaching down to do the same. "I would have been eaten alive years ago if I couldn't roll with it.”</p><p>Thank turtle-god he at least had Patty Uris to get through the last of the schmoozing. Steve was probably creaming his pants in delight. He caught sight of a few of the other Losers as the afternoon went on, when the crowd got a bit thinner as people started to head in for the premiere. Bev, to their left, was hanging off Ben’s elbow as she spoke to some well-dressed young woman, both of them smiling something more real than their to-go stiff plastic ones. Bill dipped in and out of the crowd with Mike at his side, occasionally stopping to talk to the reporters with a charming grin. Mike, at his elbow, looked so proud and happy, Richie had to look away. </p><p>He couldn’t see Stan and Eddie anywhere, but neither of them was probably eager to get into the nitty-gritty of the crowded, humid carpet. The nerds were probably huddled together muttering about germs. </p><p>Finally, they were able to reconvene by the end of the carpet, where the cameras seemed the least interested. </p><p>Patty floated back to Stan’s arm, beaming like the sunshine fairy she was. “So, what’s next?” </p><p>Bill sighed and lifted his hand to rub at his face, then dropped it promptly before he could touch the skin. He was probably wearing enough concealer to supply a junior prom; Richie knew from experience. </p><p>“There’s still the film,” Bill looked exhausted. “It’s, uh, two hours long? And a half? Then probably some after interviews...” </p><p>Bev looked physically ill at the thought of hanging around there for a few more hours. And actually, so did Bill. </p><p>“We could always… not go?” Richie suggested. Stan’s hand automatically came up to squeeze at his shoulder twice. </p><p><em> - 10-year-old Stan, his mouth curved downward, doing the same </em> — a <em>wordless </em>Beep Beep, Richie<em> -  </em></p><p>Which, yeah, suggesting to skip your friend’s movie premiere they were an anxious mess over is kind of a dick move. Totally understandable, except for how Bill’s face melted in relief at the suggestion. </p><p>“Really? You guys would be okay with that?” Bill let out a large breath before they even stopped nodding. “Thank god. Uh, turtle-god. Yeah. Sitting with my best friends in a movie I made sounds like hell, no offense guys.”</p><p>“We’ve all met Richie, don’t worry.”</p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>“Actually lot of the movie—and uh, most of my books—a lot of it stems from certain parts of Derry?” They all winced, even Patty. “So that wouldn’t be fun for anyone.” </p><p>“I noticed the books,” Mike elbowed him goodnaturedly. “When I read <em> House Hallows, </em>the basement scene gave me nightmares.” </p><p>Now officially fleeing, Bill and Bev both stepped away to make calls to have the cars discreetly brought around. Eddie took that moment to step as well, only to ask Bill in a low voice, “What about Audra - ?”</p><p>Richie forced himself to stop listening and tuned in to whatever Mike and Patty were discussing which was, horrifying, books. Turtle-god, they were all so old. He looked elsewhere for entertainment. </p><p>Fucking hell. Eddie looked good. Even rudely talking to Bill over his phone call, Richie would happily get on one knee at that exact moment. Or both knees, but it was whatever Eddie was into. </p><p>
  <em> Dangerous thoughts, Tozier.  </em>
</p><p>“Beverly Bon Jovi Marsh,” Richie came up to her side as she hung up. “We ditching this popsicle stand?” </p><p>“Dick Trashmouth,” She grabbed his hand. “Let’s get out of here.” </p><hr/><p>An hour later, they were all stuffed in some curved corner book at the closest, lowkey, and dingy pizzeria they could find. Somehow, he ended up crammed in between Bev and Bill, with Eddie and Stan across from him. So far, he wasn’t sure if he was grateful or regretting the lack of alcohol on the menu. </p><p>They were all in various states of their red carpet dress, and pushed together in the booth fighting over the order of breadsticks, he almost felt like they were experiencing the late weekend nights together they missed in high school. They cheered when the pizzas were brought out, like the noisy annoying little shits they still were, and Richie was a little in love with each of them. </p><p>He avoided Eddie’s stare, right across from him. </p><p>“Should we pray?” Richie didn’t wait for anyone’s input before continuing. “Dearest turtle-god, it’s Richie and the crew.” He ignored their loud heckling. “I just wanna give you a quick shout-out and again, a very large thank you for making everyone but me in the Losers super fucking hot on red carpets. Looking like a muppet is a sacrifice I accept in order to keep my -” </p><p>“I hate you,” Stan said conversationally as he and Ben rearranged the table to fit all their pizza trays. “Just so you know.” </p><p>"- Anyway, amen or whatever. Let's eat!" </p><p>Patty, Stan, and Ben were all splitting a large mushroom and tomato, while he and Bev went to absolute fucking town on a pepperoni and jalapeno greasy monstrosity. Mike and Bill, who hung off the former with a tired look on his face, had ordered a “meat lovers” to the incredible delight of Richie and the tired annoyance of their waitress.</p><p>Eddie, while he had spent a minute loudly and obnoxiously insisting to their poor waitress about his severe gluten allergy and asking about the gluten-free options, stole Richie’s cheese crusts when he wasn’t looking. He was <em>such</em> an asshole. </p><p>Just when Richie was formulating a plan to keep his cheese crusts safe (one not unlike a dragon attempting to keep its gold safe, i.e. by throwing his body across it at the slightest hint of danger), Stan gestured for him to lean in so they could speak under Bill and Ben’s debate over best 90s rom-com. </p><p>"Thanks for taking Patty on the carpet," Stan said quietly, "she was keeping her expectations low, but I knew she wanted to go."</p><p>"No thanks in order, it's actually all a part of my master plan," Richie said. "If everything works out, Pats and I will be dashing off into the sunset together this time next month."</p><p>"A month from now, really?" Stan's gaze turned considering. "You better make quick work of your plan, then. I hear she's real attached to her husband."</p><p>"Oh, the husband's coming too." He rolled his head to give Stan a <em> duh </em>look. "Patsy Cline and I will need <em>someone</em> to bankroll our lavish lifestyle on the road, after all."</p><p>Stan just hummed. “Aren’t you the rich one here?”</p><p>Before Richie could respond, Bev spoke up from his side. “Hell yeah, he is. Have you seen his house? It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of.” She took a noisy sip of her soda while Ben watched on, adoring. “My advice if you want to live rent-free in an L.A. McMansion, befriend a loudmouth 13-year-old and return 27 years later to collect." Beverly made a chef-kiss motion, something she 1000% picked up from him. "Works every time." Patty giggled from under Stan’s arm. </p><p>“I should charge you rent,” Richie muttered with absolutely no heat. “Or charge you for Postmates at least.” </p><p>Beverly waved her soda cup around as she spoke, leaning back into Ben’s chest with no shame. "Please, sexist jokes bought that place. Me living there rent-free is basically reparations to womankind."</p><p>Stan held up his glass, “I’ll drink to that.” </p><p>Mike laughed loudly. “I’ll have to remember that!”</p><p>Richie threw a balled-up napkin at her. “That’s it, you’re paying rent from now on. Two million dollars a day, cash only. I will also accept payment in Ben’s-” </p><p>Stan shoved the end of a breadstick in Richie’s mouth, looking bored. “Not at the dinner table, Richard.” </p><p>Their meal fell into comfortable lulled silence after a while of them eating and drinking, laughing and teasing. </p><p>Bev was tucked into Ben’s side, but she’d managed to turn enough in the booth that her heels sat in Richie’s lap. Bill looked asleep, his face smushed into Mike’s shoulder, and Patty was still happily curled under Stan’s arm. It was late for them. Most of them, being lame adults, were probably in bed by this time most days. </p><p>Eddie looked stiff as a board. </p><p>Richie leaned on his fist, his elbow on the table in a way that was surely making Maggie Tozier roll in her grave, and tried not to stare too obviously at Eddie’s shiftiness, his hands ripping up napkins. He’d come out with it eventuall -</p><p>“I asked my wife for a divorce,” Eddie said suddenly into the sleepy silence. Each of them immediately looked up to him, now wide-awake. Richie’s heart spiked up straight to his brain. “A few days ago, I mean. We weren't happy. She was kind of exactly like my mother.” He very helpfully clarified, like Richie’s brain wasn’t melting out his ears. </p><p>Bev, of course, was the first to recover. "Good for you, Eddie.” She reached out to squeeze his hand. “We’ll be there every step of the way. I can help handle all the lawyer stuff, and we’ll get you settled. It’s going to be so hard, but worth it.”</p><p>“Proud of you, man," Bill said, grabbing his shoulder. “You’re going to be so much happier.”</p><p>“Whatever you need, we’re there,” Mike said earnestly. “I don’t care if I need to drive across the country because you need help moving out, whatever you need we're here for you.” </p><p>“Actually,” Eddie peeked up at them, his gaze landing straight on Richie’s frozen corpse. “I already kind of moved out. And, um, I kind of brought my things with me. It's all at the hotel.” </p><p>“Oh, how convenient.” </p><p>“Also, I think I’m gay.” Eddie paused. “I mean, I’m gay. I know I am.” </p><p>Beverly’s squeezing hand on his leg was the only blood flow his body was receiving. The cheese crust, which he had planning on basically deep-throating to keep away from Eddie, fell onto his plate. </p><p>The others immediately jumped to reassure and thank him or whatever the fuck, but Richie’s brain was. Not Comprehending. </p><p>Stan, across from him, met his gaze head-on. Richie stared right back at him. </p><p>“If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the washroom,” Beverly said after a few minutes of reassurance or whatever. Richie’s brain was still pure fuzzy static. Ben slid out of the booth first, then she stood and smoothed out her dress front, and looked perfectly composed. “Richie, walk me?” </p><p>“Oh!” Patty stood from the other side of the table, beaming. “No worries, Bev! I can go with you.” </p><p>Richie, already half-way stumbling his way out of the booth, froze. Bev met his gaze, blank. </p><p>Patty, who had quickly stood, took a moment to balance in her heels before stepping forward. He and Bev remained frozen. </p><p>“I have to pee as well,” Richie said suddenly, loud. </p><p>Patty gave him a confused look. “Alright?” </p><p>“Me and Bev are just so in-sync, you know how it is.” Bev’s hand grabbed his wrist to pull him away even as he rambled. “We’re just so -” </p><p>Beverly pulled him around the corner before he could continue anymore. Patty followed, looking slightly confused. “This isn’t the way to the bathroom?” </p><p>“I know, I know, just-” </p><p>Richie interrupted Bev to spin toward Patty. “Patty. Patty Cake. Patsy Cline. Stan Uris told you I was gay before I came out, right?” </p><p>She looked completely surprised by that question, but not in the way he was looking for. After a few moments, she bit her lip and nodded. </p><p>“What else did he tell you? About me?”</p><p>“Um,” She blinked a few times. “Just like you said offensive jokes, but didn’t mean them. And that you bicker with Eddie a lot, but y’all are real good friends.”</p><p>“Real good friends,” Richie muttered. Okay, whatever, the world felt like it was ending with sunshine anyway. “Okay, recap, I’ve kind of been in gay-love with Eddie since we were kids and I completely forgot about it for 27 years <em> except not really </em> and it all came back as soon as we met again and I’ve been coasting by on hiding my emotions for months because he’s <em> married </em> and <em> straight </em> except now. Apparently, he’s not! And! My fucking goblin brain is freaking out! And that’s why Bev pulled us back here! Surprise, no one has to pee!”  </p><p>Patty blinked at him again. “What’s the difference between gay-love and regular love?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You said you were in gay-love with Eddie. What’s the difference?” </p><p>Richie made a wild gesture with his hand. “More longing? Repression? I don’t know!” </p><p>Patty nodded like she completely accepted this as fact. “So now you’re unsure how to continue next.” </p><p>Richie nodded frantically. “And wonderful Beverly Marsh, you know her? Noticed my consciousness fading and took me for a lap.” </p><p>“How nice.” </p><p>“How nice,” Richie agreed, nodding frantically some more. He was going a bit light-headed. “Anyway! Eddie’s getting a divorce and he’s gay! And he’s here! I’m a fucking goblin who can’t keep his hands to himself and I can’t stop <em> fucking talking -”  </em></p><p>Bev slid in front of his gaze and stared him down. “Breathe, Rich. Follow me.” She inhaled in and exhaled out slowly, again and again until Richie was following her along. </p><p>“Sorry for dragging you back here, Patty.” Bev was saying. Richie continued his breathing. He was totally a normal person who could breathe on his own, yessiree. Some would even say he managed to for years. “He just needs some time to process.”</p><p>Patty made a very sweet and well-meaning apology before turning to head back, presumably to give him some privacy. She paused before she left, catching his eye.</p><p>Patty winced. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. I’ve worked with some at-risk LGBTQ youth and I think Stan just wanted some advice-”</p><p>He was breathing normally enough to even start speaking again, look at that.</p><p>“I’m not upset he told you, Pats.” He said, his voice coming out even and everything. He reached out to squeeze her shoulder--bare and slightly cold from her dress cut. “If I really didn’t want him to tell you, I would have told him to keep it to himself. He told us he tells you everything.” </p><p>She blushed a pretty pink color. “Oh, Stan. That man, I swear.” She fanned her own face. “Well, hun, anything else I can do for you before I head back?”</p><p>“Um. Can you send your husband back here?” She nodded happily and floated off. Richie waved Beverly off. “I’m fine, Stan’s got it. Thanks for teaching me how to breathe again. Go enjoy Ben.” </p><p>After barely a minute of Bev nodding and wandering back, Stan emerged, bored. </p><p>“Patty said you had a bathroom emergency. Pretty sure everyone thinks you shit your pants.” Stan raised an unimpressed eyebrow and crossed his arms. “We doing this here? Next to a pizzeria breakroom?” </p><p>“Stanley, what do I do?” He was a cartoon wide-eyed raccoon at this point. “Stanley, he’s gay. I’m gay. Stanley, what do I do? Stanley -” </p><p>“That’s a yes, I suppose.” Stan grabbed both of his shoulders, “Put yourself together.” His voice turned as serious as Richie had ever heard it. Riche's mouth miraculously snapped shut mid-babble. “I’ve been waiting to give this pep talk since I was twelve. You need to calm down. You need to collect your thoughts. And you need to talk to Eddie.”</p><p>“Words?” Richie breathed out. </p><p>Stan nodded gravely. “Yes. You need to speak words, Richie. To Eddie. Who is single and gay."</p><p>He made a desperate whining sound. “This could ruin everything, Stan. What if he doesn’t feel the same way? What if he’s never even thought about it?” </p><p>Stanley leaned forward to press their foreheads together. “I have known for years I would have to give this talk. But I never knew which of you I’d be giving it to.” He pulled back before Richie could ask any questions. “You need to talk to him.”</p><p>Stan was right. This was exactly what Richie thought he would say, and now he’s said it, and he’s right. </p><p>“Okay,” Richie rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Okay. Tell Eddie I’m going out for a smoke.” </p><p>He turned the corner as Stan said, “But you don’t smoke?”</p><p>He dipped out the back door and came along to the front, where he only managed to sit himself on the curb for a few moments when the diner’s double doors were kicked open, crashing against the gate on either side. </p><p>Eddie burst out of the doorway, already pissed and heading toward him. “<em>Oh, so you’re</em> <em>fucking smoking now?” </em></p><p>Richie snorted and felt fond, amused, in love, and everything he didn’t let himself feel for decades. “I’m not smoking.”</p><p>Eddie jerked to a sudden stop only a foot away like he was just now realizing that. His hand was extended out like he was ready to pluck the cigarette out of his hands. He dropped his arm. “Oh. Stan said -”</p><p>“Yeah,” Richie leaned back on his palms so he could look up at him in full. What a view. “I knew that would get your little spaghetti noodles all riled up.”</p><p>His face scrunched up. “Lung cancer is no joke, Richie. One cigarette can-”</p><p>“What you did back there was really brave.” Richie interrupted. When Eddie got going on the statistics, he’d be red in the face until someone was forced to interrupt him. Little Richie had stared on lovingly long enough to know that. “You’ve always been so brave, Eds.” </p><p>“Don’t call me Eds,” Eddie only said, his voice so, so soft. He never minded nicknames when they came from anyone else. </p><p>Richie patted the curb next to him, “C’mon, throw yourself down.” </p><p>“Bev will kill you if you ruin her suit.” Still, Eddie took a seat right next to him on the curb, not even a complaint about his knees. They both went quiet for a few long moments. </p><p>Eddie took a deep breath, “I know you’ve already got Beverly living with you, but I’ve been looking at L.A.’s apartments -”</p><p>“Wait,” Richie took a moment to mentally shift through his very scattered thoughts. “You want to stay here?” </p><p>Eddie gave him a confused look, “Yes? I brought all my stuff.” </p><p>“But…” Richie’s brain was processing one single brain cell a minute. “I live here. In L.A.” He clarified at the end, like Eddie didn’t know. </p><p>Eddie’s whole face turned red. “What, you tryin’ to say you own the whole damn city? That I can’t live here because you’re here?"</p><p>"Well-"</p><p>"I want to live in L.A. and it’s nothing to do with you!"  Eddie was now nearly yelling at him. “I just-I see all the food and places you and Bev visit and that’s, that’s why I’m staying! I want to visit those places! And for the weather! I’m fucking tired of snow! New York sucks ass! And the fruit trucks, those things must be fucking parasite heaven, and someone has to keep you guys from eating the unwashed fruit, you’re both going to fucking die! You need to eat clean, washed organic shit! Like a fucking vegetable, I know you two have just been eating take-out and getting high since she moved in, you’d both have scurvy if it wasn’t for the tomato sauce on pizza! You guys are fucking forty years old! <em> Do you want to fucking die?”  </em>Eddie’s speech continuously got faster and louder until he was nearly screaming just a jumble of words in Richie’s direction. From the waitress’s face through the glass, they were exactly one (1) minute away from getting kicked off the premises.</p><p>But Richie could only listen on as his lips spread out in a wider and wider absolutely-fucking-delighted smile. By the end of it, Eddie was breathing hard with red in his face. “The hell you smilin’ at?” He snapped, like a true New Yorker. </p><p>Richie shook his head. He was close to swooning. “You want to move to L.A.?” </p><p>Eddie was still slightly panting. “That’s what I just fucking said.” He swallowed, his temper fading as Richie’s grin grew. “I mean, yeah.” </p><p>“We’ve got an extra room.” The words were out before he could even consider them. “You know, if you need somewhere to crash.”  </p><p>Eddie stared at him for a very long moment before nodding, jerky. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. I… I think I would really like that, Rich.” </p><p>Richie exhaled. He was sworn he was riding high after getting back from Derry—he had just been reunited with his best friends in the world after 27 years <em> and </em>they defeated some ancient nightmare evil so like, go team—but compared to this? </p><p>Derry was supposed to be about killing the past, keeping what should be dead down once and for all. He’s never thought he could have a future outside of it, especially not here, especially with <em>him. </em></p><p>“Eddie,” Richie said, slowly. A breeze hit them and Eddie shivered but, what was he kidding, it was the fucking summer. He wasn’t cold. “I’m gay.”</p><p>Eddie blinked at him. “Yeah, I fucking know.” He looked away, like the cars in the distance were so interesting. “I’m gay too.” </p><p>“Okay,” Richie slowly—fuck, he was a fucking glacier and not even a productive one like the one that KO’d the Titanic or something, just a regular fucking floaty one—moved his arm until it was pressed flush with Eddie’s. Richie had stripped his suit jacket long ago, but Eddie still wore his all prim and neat. The cut of dark suit fabric across Eddie’s wrist was nearly erotic. </p><p>Richie pressed their hands side-by-side. When Eddie didn’t move away, he stayed. </p><p>Being brave—that was always their thing, he guessed. He’d fucking cower away from missing posters every time they appeared, but he’d deep-dive into the chaos of it all just to hold Eddie’s face, scream <em> look at me, </em>and put himself in between evil itself and Eddie Kaspbrak. </p><p>And Eddie would, on one of the worst days of their lives, stand up to evil and hate and the whole goddamn world to spear a clown for him.</p><p>Being brave was always their thing. </p><p>Richie lifted his hand and curled it over the top of Eddie’s beside him. The skin was warm, dry, the touch was everything. After a few moments, Eddie flipped his hand to weave their fingers together. They said nothing—after all these years, what hadn’t been said?—and they watched the cars go by, together. </p><p>They could be brave together. That sounded nice. Perfect, even.</p><hr/><p>Eventually, the rest of the Losers filtered out of the diner, knowing smiles on their faces. </p><p>They quickly made vague plans to meet at Richie’s tomorrow morning for breakfast. Stan and Patty were the first planned to be heading home, but that still wasn’t for another day. They were all polite enough not to comment on his and Eddie’s still entangled hands when they started exchanging tired goodbyes one by one—it was past midnight. </p><p>Eddie squeezed his hand before letting go and looked up to meet Richie’s gaze. “See you tomorrow?” He asked, like they didn’t just agree on doing so. </p><p>He grinned, crooked. “Already missing me, Eds? I guess all the Kaspbraks have that in common.”</p><p>Eddie leaned in close and Richie’s heart Stopped. </p><p>“Make another joke about my mom,” he whispered, his hot breath hitting Richie’s neck. “And I’ll rip off your balls, Tozier.” </p><p>“Got it. Yeah, totally. Free reign.” He swallowed and tried for a smile. “You know, no one ever believes me on how much of a gremlin you are. The only one who knows is Stan.”</p><p>“Stan knows everything,” Eddie said dismissively, in the exact tone of his teen self. “That doesn’t count.”</p><p>Stan, who had been walking by, protested. “Unfair!” </p><p>Ben, while they all discreetly Did Not watch, leaned and to kiss Bev on the cheek, who immediately turned a patchy bright red. God, Richie <em> could not </em> wait to start teasing her into oblivion. Richie waved off Eddie, who was riding back with Ben to their hotel. He climbed into the car after Bev, Stan following afterward. </p><p>“Oh, I meant to tell Mike something.” Patty pressed a quick kiss to Stan’s cheek before jogging lightly to flag down Mike before he could dip back into Bill’s car. Apparently, they’d gotten close since the phone call. </p><p>Stan, after giving Richie a tired look, reached out to shut the door after her. </p><p>Politely, Richie waited precisely half a second after the door slammed to start screaming. “Oh my fucking TURTLE-GOD.”</p><p>Beverly was completely invested. “What happened?! Tell us everything!” </p><p>“Please not <em> everything -”  </em></p><p>“Eddie’s moving to L.A.! Eddie is getting divorced and he’s gay and he’s <em> moving in! </em> <b> <em>WE FUCKING HELD HANDS. </em> </b>FUCK! Oh my FUCK.” </p><p>Bev threw her fist in the air in triumph. “Yes! Fuck, yes!”</p><p>Stan was grinning. “That’s terrific. It’s about time.” </p><p>Richie was still riding high on disbelief and adrenaline. Bev, who seemed to just now process his words, froze. “Wait, he’s moving in?  I mean that’s great but... oh my god,” Beverly stared at the car ceiling numbly. “I’m going to have to listen to you fighting at all hours. Oh my god.” </p><p>“You could always get your own place,” Stan suggested. </p><p>Bev continued her stare fest, completely ignoring him. “Oh my god, they’re gonna bicker over everything. Their flirting is going to be horrible.”</p><p>Richie dropped his head into his palm, beaming. “I’m so fucking excited. We’ll be the Losers House. Or, or ‘Loft’ would sound better. Should I get a loft? The Losers Loft?” Bev was already shaking her head. “We can invite everyone! Do you think Mike would like a room? Bill’s already got a place, and Ben can crash with you. Oh, Stan!”</p><p>“Okay, we’re definitely not moving to L.A.,” Stan said, looking over the rims of his glasses. “It’s too hot, too dangerous to raise a family, and Patty and I just paid off the house. It's a no from us."</p><p>Richie shoved him goodnaturedly. “Despite my wettest fantasies, I never expected you to, old man.”</p><p>“I might hate that nickname more if you hadn’t started calling me it when we were thirteen.” Stan patted his shoulder. “We’ll probably be able to visit for a week or two in December, after Hanukkah. And we <em> will </em>be getting a hotel.” </p><p>“Smart,” Bev said. “Let me crash with?” </p><p>“Wait,” Richie interrupted, his mind stumbled to a grinding halt. He mentally rewound Stan’s initial statement, the VHS-whirring sound playing in his head. He paused, “Did you say <em> raise a family?”  </em></p><p>Beverly gasped, and Stan grinned, wide. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>:)<br/>when bev's texting in richie's coming out scene you kNOW who she's texting</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Epilogue, babe-aye</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a very short epilogue. thanks for playing!<br/>((rina is an angel thank u for your beta-ing and comma assassinations)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Edwardo, ándale!” </p><p>There was a crash in the distance. “Fuck, Richie! You fucking scared me!” </p><p>Richie smiled to himself as he turned out of his office, going down the hall into the kitchen where Eddie’s low cursing was drifting from. </p><p>Bev and Eddie (and, more recently, Ben) had taken to decorating the space as they pleased, leaving it modernly colorful and sleek. Ben had even started building up the pool deck area outside, claiming it would be “just perfect for parties” and had a dining room table with the works put in. </p><p>Richie never knew his place could look like this. It looked like people lived here, and liked it. Like a home. It was nice. </p><p>In the kitchen, Eddie was soaking up a spilled glass of juice, already glaring at him in the doorway. “The fuck you yelling about?” </p><p>He leaned against the frame and crossed his arm, smiling. It was impossible not to. “I was tellin’ your old bones to get a move on. Didn’t you want to grab food?” </p><p>“Ben and Bev ran out,” Eddie answered, his voice suddenly soft with distraction. He dropped the paper towels in the bin and walked over, his eyes on Richie’s neck. “You’re a mess. Did you eat a pen?”</p><p>“Not lately.” He rubbed at his chin. His hands were covered in ink—he must have broken a pen mid-brainstorming. </p><p>He <em> tsked </em> and led Richie over to the sink. He ran a dishcloth under warm water and dabbed it at Richie’s chin. “You really shouldn’t chew pens. You know how disgusting that is?” </p><p>“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”</p><p>“It’s gross.” Eddie scrubbed at Richie’s neck, frowning. “Did you get any writing done?”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m doing an awesome bit about these world-changing short-shorts my boyfriend wears and how they drive me dick-stupid.” </p><p>“You’re always dick-stupid,” Eddie answered promptly before thinking over Richie’s words. “Wait, what?” </p><p>Richie reached down to run his hand along the hem of said short-shorts. Eddie paused mid-scrub. He actually <em> was </em>writing a bit about Eddie’s crazy short short-shorts, but that was a bit best delivered in completion. Eddie melted under his touch, like the wet dream he was. </p><p>“You’re covered in ink.” </p><p>“I’d be more than happy to be covered in something else. Cover up the ink with -”</p><p>“Don’t fucking say it.”</p><p>“- white-out.”</p><p>Eddie sighed heavily and dropped his head onto Richie’s shoulder. Somehow, Eddie had ended up being the one pressed against the counter, Richie towering over him. </p><p>Richie caught his arm and leaned in to press his lips against his wrist, grabbing the damp rag out of his hand and tossing it aside. He rubbed his thumb over his favorite freckle, and kissed his way up Eddie’s arm to his neck, pressing him further against the counter. </p><p>“Bev and Ben will be back soon,” Eddie muttered against his skin but made no move to pull back. </p><p>“I’ll put a sock on the door.”</p><p>“This isn’t a goddamn frat house, Richie! We’re adults! We’re old!” </p><p>“Speak for yourself. I’m the picture of youth, baby.” </p><p>Eddie gave him a dry look. “You literally threw out your back last month when you tried to pick up one of Ben’s boxes.” </p><p>He pulled back. “He had a box of weights! It was heavy! I thought ‘gym stuff’ meant like, fucking sneakers and jump ropes or whatever the hell!” </p><p>Eddie waved his protests off, the gesture a bit loose from how Richie was still pressed close to him. Richie very politely sucked a dark mark into his neck (polite, because it was even under the collar and everything). </p><p>He pulled away for just a moment. “Oh, yeah, Mike’s crashing all next week while he checks out the area again. I think he’s looking at some university courses.” </p><p>“I’ll make up his room,” Eddie said breathlessly as his hands twisted in Richie’s hair. “And don’t forget, we have to wash the guest room sheets before Stan and Patty arrive this weekend.” </p><p>“Yes, yes I know. He’s reminded me twice, like you would allow dirty sheets to exist in our household.” A bubble of warmth filled his chest as he spoke. “He keeps threatening to get a hotel like we’ll fall to pieces if he and Patty check-in at a Hilton.”</p><p>“Okay, but you<em> would.”  </em></p><p>“We’ve got so much space! And how dare he withhold Patty time from me, he knows she’s the love of my life, right after -”</p><p>“My mother, I know.” </p><p>“I was going to say <em> you</em>. But you’re right, I think of her constantly. Her wrinkled old hands on my -”</p><p>“This isn’t a frat house,” Eddie ignored him and instead repeated seriously, his hand on Richie’s chest. “I refuse.” </p><p>“You’re right,” Richie leaned in to press his lips to Eddie’s neck, right on the pulse point. “It’s a clubhouse. Clubhouse 2.0.” </p><p>Eddie huffed out a laugh. “Don’t say that in front of Ben. He’ll get a sign for the front door, right next to Dinosaur Stan.”</p><p>“Is that supposed to deter me, Eds? It’s like you don’t even know me.” </p><p>Eddie’s hand came up to rub at Richie’s neck, where another ink splotch was. “I know you better than anyone, Richie Tozier.” He tapped his finger twice on his neck. “And I know it’ll kill you if Stan actually stayed in a hotel that was a whole 15 minutes away from you. So wash the damn sheets.” </p><p>Richie sighed very dramatically. “Fine. Fine! But I’m telling The Urine’s that it was all you.”</p><p>“Whatever helps you sleep at night, bro.” </p><p>“Don’t call me ‘bro,’ you know it turns me on.” Richie cast a quick look around the kitchen. Ben had moved in the last of his kitchen appliances last weekend, making the counters much more cluttered than they were before. “That’s it. If Bill insists on moving in, that’s it.” Richie shook his head. “We’re getting a bigger house. Rooms for all of us. Don’t test me, I’ll do it!” </p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous, Richie.” Eddie patted his cheek. “Bill would obviously share with Mike.” </p><p>The door slammed open. “We brought dinner!” Bev’s voice yelled out. “Better be wearing clothes!” </p><p>“Unfortunately!” He yelled back, taking a few steps away from Eddie. Eddie, never willing to back down first, grabbed his collar to pull him in for one last lingering kiss.</p><p>“No sex in the kitchen!” Bev exclaimed, pointing to the white-board on the fridge. “It’s on the rule list!” </p><p>Eddie pulled back with an eye roll, turning to the sink until his flushed cheeks went down. Richie loved him so much, he felt like he was leaking with it. Radiating. </p><p>Bev held up the plastic bag in an offering. She was wearing one of his button-ups again, and a pair of jean shorts—the same ones she had embroidered that day on the beach. A yellow smiley-face patch and an array of blooming red flowers danced along the bottom hem. </p><p>Richie cleared his throat. “What’d you get?” </p><p>“Your favorite,” she said with absolute confidence, because it probably was. She gestured to her side, where Ben was holding two large bouquets. “Ben insisted on getting flowers on the way back.” </p><p>“There are studies that say having fresh flowers in the house improves mood and confidence!” He held up the bouquet with excitement. “And think how nice they’ll look with the accent pillows!” </p><p>Eddie was already eyeing the flowers with distrust. He was probably seconds away from going rapid-question interrogation about the exact pesticides used on the flowers since their moment of bloom and their soil composition or whatever the fuck. </p><p>Richie smiled at the shade of red Eddie’s face was turning. Richie was going to marry that angry fucking gremlin one day, and he was going to be so fucking happy. And he was going to do it with his best friends by his side. And they—all of them—were going to build a home that Derry, Maine couldn’t touch. </p><p>Clubhouse 2.0. Huh. Maybe he’d order that sign himself. </p><p>He held up a stack of plates and smiled. “I’ll set the table. Bev, grab the drinks?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Stan and Patty never do move in but, when visiting for the holidays, do they look extra close at the “FOR SALE” sign in a decently sized home directly across from the clubhouse 2.0’s driveway? And do they discreetly talk to their employers about resigning, quietly pack up their belongings and move to L.A. because, honestly, the weather isn’t too different than Atlanta and the neighborhood is great? And honestly, with a move this big, isn't better to get it over with rather than wait until kids are around? And do they not tell a Single Soul for two days until Richie comes out to get the mail and sees Stan Goddamn Uris drinking a cup of coffee on the porch (where he had been waiting since 9 a.m.)?<br/>Yes. Yes, they do.<br/>hello i love bev marsh more than anything AND SHE DESERVES A HEALING PLOT TOO<br/>I might add more to this universe. Let me know if you enjoyed, I need validation :)<br/>Find me on Tumblr at rosyredlipstick.tumblr.com! Thanks for reading!</p>
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